


No Grave Can Hold My Body Down

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: Only Human [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/F, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Grief/Mourning, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28864884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: When an old enemy of Geralt’s seemingly returns from the dead, he brings with him an ultimatum: Geralt must give up his identity as the Witcher, or have his life and his family destroyed. But after catastrophe strikes, it’s up to Jaskier to keep the people he loves safe.
Relationships: Essi Daven/Shani, Fringilla Vigo/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Only Human [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650982
Comments: 201
Kudos: 158





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back! Thank you for your patience, everyone, as my inability to correctly guess how long of a break there will be between series installments continues.
> 
> The lovely art below of Geralt in his Witcher getup is by the incredible Bro, whose Tumblr you can find [here](https://broskier.tumblr.com/), where they post a ton of amazing Witcher art.
> 
> The title is from "Work Song" by Hozier.
> 
> Thank you to dls for betaing!

There’s no body for them to bury today.

Yennefer told Jaskier that this is normal in the aftermath of a magical fire. The flames burned through clothes, flesh, muscle, and bone. All that was left behind was a pair of swords, one silver and one steel, and a wolf’s head medallion.

The medallion hangs heavy around Jaskier’s neck, the press of it cold and unfamiliar against his skin when he tucks it under his button up shirt. When he rubs at it through the thin polyester, he can feel its ridges and lines. He remembers running his fingers over it so many times when it was around Geralt’s neck, warmed by Geralt’s skin— 

But he can’t think about that now.

“It’s time to go.”

Jaskier doesn’t startle at the sudden appearance of Vesemir in the doorway. A week ago, he probably would have, but he’s been strangely numb ever since-

He’s not thinking about that either.

Vesemir looks like a man who has aged a decade in a week. “Ciri and Yennefer are downstairs with that detective and his wife.” Normally, he would spit the word “detective” with venom, but he sounds too tired for venom.

Jaskier might have said something in response, but he can’t be sure. He seems to be floating somewhere above his body, watching himself in his rented black suit, his fingernails bitten to the quick and the medallion of the man he loved— _loves_ — hanging around his neck.

“Come on, son.” Vesemir’s voice is more gentle than Jaskier has ever heard it and that’s what finally makes tears prickle at the corner of Jaskier’s eyes.

He hasn’t cried yet. He thinks if he starts, he won’t stop, and he needs to be strong for Ciri. Besides Yennefer, he’s all she has left.

“I’m ready.” His voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.

It’s a lie, but Vesemir probably knows that. There’s no way that Jaskier could ever be ready for this, not if he and Geralt had gotten fifty or sixty more years together.

How could he ever be ready to say goodbye to the man he loves?

***

**Three weeks earlier**

“Essi Daven, are you trying to kill me?”

Essi snorts into her drink. “If I was trying to kill you, Jaskier, you would know.”

Jaskier slaps his hand over his heart and makes a wounded noise that draws the attention of several people around them. The bar where they meet for happy hour every Friday night is crowded with talking, laughing people. “You cannot possibly be telling me that Valdo Marx is _good_ at his job.”

“He’s mellowed out since you left. It’s almost like you purposefully antagonized him all the time.”

Jaskier sniffs. “I did no such thing.”

Essi rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “Things at _The Press_ are boring without you.”

“Well, I left big shoes to fill.” Jaskier is no longer bitter about being fired from his old job, not a year after the fact. Especially since the online magazine where he works these days pays more, has better hours, and comes with significantly fewer near-death experiences.

“You sure did,” Essi says. “You know, if you said the word, the Countess would totally hire you back.”

“I would never say the word.” Jaskier shrugs. “I like what I do now.”

“Writing dumb quizzes?”

“Excuse you, those quizzes are actually more complicated to make than anyone gives me credit for. And that’s not all I do. I write news articles too.”

Essi snorts. “I miss you. Don’t know why, but I do.”

“I miss you too. But hey!” Jaskier holds up his drink. “That’s what happy hour is for, right? Maybe one of these days, you can even get Shani to come.”

“Hopefully.” Essi shifts on her barstool. “The last year of med school is tough. She’s at the hospital almost every night.”

Jaskier knows that’s only part of the story. Neither Essi nor Shani are happy that Jaskier is back with Geralt, not when they think that Geralt cheated on Jaskier and nearly got him killed. But while Essi has managed to accept Jaskier and Geralt’s rekindled romance for Jaskier’s sake, Shani hasn’t. Jaskier can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her in the past year, which just feels wrong. But it’s not like Jaskier can tell Shani and Essi his real reasons for breaking up with Geralt and then reconciling with him.

Still, he says, “You two should come over for dinner sometime, once Shani graduates. You two need to meet Ciri.”

Essi expression softens. “One of these days.”

“She’s a great kid. You and Shani will love her.” And maybe seeing how good Geralt is with her will soften their feelings towards him.

“I do need to see you as a parent,” she says teasingly.

“I’m not a parent exactly. More like a cool big brother.”

“Cool?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow and Jaskier laughs. “Another drink?”

“Wish I could.” Jaskier checks the time on his phone. “Geralt is taking me to dinner tonight. There’s a new Toussainti restaurant near us that we’ve been wanting to try.”

And just like that, something shutters in Essi’s face. “Have fun,” she says in a perfectly neutral tone that is so un-Essi-like that it would be preferable if she were openly angry.

“Essi.” Jaskier sighs. “He’s made amends for what happened. I’ve forgiven him. You and Shani really should too.”

“Would you forgive someone who did that to me? Or to Shani?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Jaskier says, because they both know the answer. Anyone who hurt Essi or Shani would be dead to him.

“Then don’t ask me to forgive Geralt.” She finishes the dregs of her drink in one gulp. “I’m glad he makes you happy, Jask, but he still broke your heart. I watched you cry over him too many times.”

Jaskier’s heart hurts, but there’s not much for him to say. “He’s not going away anytime soon.”

“I know that,” Essi says. “And I can play nice for your sake. But that doesn’t mean I’m ever going to be happy about it.”

“Fair enough.” Shrugging his coat on, Jaskier bends to press a kiss to her cheek. “Give my love to Shani.”

“I will. And give my love to Roach.”

“See you next week, Essi,” Jaskier says and heads out into the cold January evening, feeling more out of sorts than he should after going to happy hour with his best friend.

***

“Jaskier, I’ve spent the last four years falling a little more in love with you every day. Every time I think I’m as in love with you as I could ever be, I fall in love with you more.” Geralt frowns. “Sounds a little redundant, doesn’t it, Roach? No, a lot redundant.”

His dog wags her tail at him, entirely unhelpful.

“Jaskier should really be the one proposing,” he tells her. “He’s the one who’s good with words.”

“Are you proposing to the dog again?” Ciri barges into the kitchen, making a beeline for the pantry.

“Just practicing.” Geralt watches as she roots around in the pantry. “Yenn’s making scallops for dinner.”

“I’ll be hungry by then,” Ciri says, ripping open a packet of Pop Tarts and taking an enormous bite. “So, are you actually going to do it this time, or are you going to chicken out again?”

Geralt scowls at her. “I have not chickened out.”

She snorts, sending crumbs everywhere. “Yeah you have.”

 _“Have not,”_ Geralt almost says, then remembers he’s ostensibly the adult here. “It just hasn’t been the right time.”

“You’ve had the ring for nearly a year.”

“Hm.”

“How many times have you planned on asking him now?”

Geralt glares at her. “I've been waiting for the perfect moment.”

“And tonight will be that perfect moment?” She leans against the counter with the smug expression of a teenager who knows she’s right. “Yennefer and I have a bet about whether you’ll actually ask him tonight. She thinks you will.”

“That’s unusually optimistic of Yennefer,” Geralt says. “You’re seventeen. Don’t you have more interesting things to be worried about than me proposing to Jaskier? College applications? School? Boys? Girls? That TV show you like with the aliens?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve had my bridesmaid dress picked out for like six months, Geralt.”

“Who says you’re going to be a bridesmaid?”

She sticks her tongue out at him and Geralt feels a swell of affection for her. Ciri has come out of her shell since Jaskier moved in with them the year before. The two get along like they’ve known each other their entire lives.

“You two are basically married anyway,” she points out. “You may as well have the party to make it official.”

Geralt snorts. Of course it’s about the party.

The front door flies open and a familiar voice sings out, “I’m home!”

Geralt starts, even though absolutely nothing about what’s going on right now looks suspicious. Roach runs to greet Jaskier, causing Jaskier to exclaim delightedly. Geralt tries to arrange himself into a casual pose. From Ciri’s quiet snickers, he assumes he’s not entirely successful.

“Hello, my loves.” Jaskier breezes into the kitchen to kiss Geralt on the cheek. “Today was _exhausting._ Someone has been stealing lunches out of the office fridge and it’s become a whole thing. Everyone knows it’s Peter, but no one will do anything about it since he and Janice—”

Ciri wrinkles her nose. “Is this what getting old is like?”

“Excuse you, I’m a spry twenty-seven year old.” Jaskier sniffs. “But yes, yes it is.”

“Write any good articles today?” Geralt asks.

“Of course! ‘Choose your favorite colors to determine the first letter of your soulmate’s name.’ My soulmate’s name apparently starts with a V, so I’m sorry, Geralt, but we’re going to have to say goodbye.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. “Must be Valdo Marx.”

“How dare you,” Jaskier says with a huff. “Betrayed by the man I love. Honestly, you can’t trust anyone.”

Ciri rolls her eyes, grabs another packet of Pop Tarts, and starts down the hall to her bedroom, Roach on her heels. “You two are so weird. I’m going to go pack for Yenn’s.”

Jaskier shoots Geralt a lopsided grin.

“How was happy hour?” Geralt asks.

“Lovely. Essi says hi.”

“Does she really?”

“No, but she’s given up on trying to convince me to end things, which is an improvement.” Jaskier slips his arms around Geralt’s neck. “Give her time. She and Shani will come around.”

“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t expect Jaskier’s friends to come around. After all, they think he betrayed Jaskier. They have every right to hate him.

“But enough about me,” Jaskier says breezily. “How was your day?”

“Good. Finished my article for _The Redanian Times._ Almost done the one for _Ard Carraigh Daily._ ” Geralt’s work as a freelancer means he works from home most of the time, giving him more time for his Witcher exploits, as well as more time with Jaskier and Ciri. It also means he no longer has to deal with all the bullshit that working at _The Continental Press_ entailed. 

“Been looking forward to tonight all day,” Geralt adds.

Jaskier’s smile widens. “So have I. A whole night, just the two of us.”

Geralt hums in agreement. Date nights are few and far between these days, what with raising a teenage girl. Not that either of them would have it any other way; raising Ciri is a joy. But having all three of them crammed into an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment leaves Jaskier and Geralt little alone time. Gone are the days where they could have spontaneous sex against the kitchen counter or make out on the couch during movie nights.

But tonight, Ciri and Roach will be staying at Yennefer’s, which means that Geralt has Jaskier all to himself. He feels a flutter of anxiety at the thought. It’s not that he thinks Jaskier is going to say no to his proposal. In fact, he’s pretty much certain that Jaskier will say yes. But Geralt wants it to be perfect. Jaskier deserves perfection, after everything Geralt has put him through.

“You look deep in thought.” Jaskier brushes his lips over Geralt’s. “Everything okay?”

Geralt squeezes him tighter. “Everything’s perfect.”

***

Renfri never intended to return to Novigrad. When she made a deal with the Witcher just over a year ago that she would leave the city and never come back if he helped her take down Stregobor, she meant it. She has no compunctions about a number of sins— murder, kidnapping, extortion— but she tries to be a woman of her word, especially with people whose opinions she cares about. And while she doesn’t necessarily care what Geralt thinks of her, she does care about Jaskier.

Guiltily, she thinks of the email she received from Jaskier just the day before, rambling on about the stories he’s working on, Ciri’s college applications, and his upcoming date night with Geralt. Renfri didn’t answer. She rarely does, except to occasionally confirm that she’s alive. Still, she takes comfort in those emails from Jaskier. It’s nice to know that there’s someone out there who gives a damn about her continued existence. She doesn’t remember the last time someone cared whether she lived or died— except for those who actively wanted her to die, like Stregobor.

So she wouldn’t be in Novigrad if she had a choice in the matter.

She keeps her head down as she moves, face hidden by the hood of her heavy winter jacket. The January night is bitterly cold, with a light snow falling, and she thinks longingly of Nazair, where she just spent the last month. She would have liked to stay in the south for the rest of the winter, but her lifestyle isn’t conducive to staying in one place for long. Especially not when someone is trying to kill her. Again.

On her left, a woman shrieks and Renfri tenses, hand flying to the knife she keeps hidden under her jacket. She looks around to see a young woman being picked up and spun around by a man who must be a lover, from the adoring way they’re looking at each other. Renfri’s shoulders relax and she lets her hand fall to her side. The young couple hurries away, leaving the street empty except for Renfri.

She lets out a slow exhale, breath misting in the air, and continues on her way. The snow is falling a bit heavier now, starting to settle on the cobblestone sidewalks. Novigrad is lovely like this, when there aren’t a mass of people around. In this quiet residential neighborhood, it almost feels like Renfri is the only one in the whole city.

She tenses at the sound of footsteps behind her. The person is wearing heavy boots; she can hear them clomping on the cobblestones. When she slows her step, the other pair of footsteps slow as well. She glances over her shoulder to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket and a winged motorcycle helmet walking about ten feet behind her. He’s reaching for something under his jacket.

Renfri yanks the knife from her belt without hesitation, but the man withdraws a gun from his belt. Renfri is fast, but she’s not going to be able to outrun a bullet. Running isn’t an option anyway, not for the Shrike. Palming her knife, she leaps forward.

The man aims his gun at her and fires. It’s a silenced gunshot— just a little _pop_ but it rings in Renfri’s ears. Were she a normal woman, it would probably have hit her in the abdomen. But as soon as she sees the gun, she throws herself sideways, just in time. She feels a shooting pain in her hip and bites her lip to stop herself from crying out. When she looks down, there’s a bloodstain blossoming on her jeans.

Fuck.

The man’s gun doesn’t waver, still pointed at her, and Renfri braces herself. She might not win this fight, but she intends to go down swinging. A door opens to her left, emitting a burst of music that fills the previously quiet street, and about a dozen college-aged kids come pouring out of the building in between Renfri and the helmeted man, chattering and laughing among themselves. On the other side of the crowd, Renfri sees the man hurriedly stashing away his gun.

“I love your dress,” Renfri tells one of the girls, a sweet-faced redhead, yanking down her coat to hide the rapidly spreading bloodstain on her hip.

The girl’s expression brightens. “Thanks! It has pockets.”

Renfri walks with the group for half a block, chatting with the redhead and a couple other girls about the merits of dresses with pockets. If anyone notices that she’s limping, they don’t comment. She’s very aware of the helmeted man following them at a distance, but it’s a large enough group that he doesn’t dare attack. She doubts he has any compunctions about killing witnesses— he has trained assassin written all over him— but there are enough of them that one would surely get away or at least have time to call the police before he put a bullet in their skull.

They make it to the end of the road just as a bus pulls up to the bus stop and Renfri seizes her chance. Saying a hurried goodbye to the group, she runs for the bus as fast as she can when every step sends fresh agony shooting through her hip and leg. She makes it onto the bus just before the doors close and pays her fare with a forced smile.

Finding her seat, she glances out the window to see the helmeted man standing on the sidewalk, his hands jammed into his pockets. He watches as the bus pulls away through the curb and even through the visor of his helmet, she can feel his eyes on her.

***

It’s been months since Jaskier and Geralt had a successful date night. During their last attempt, they had to go get Ciri because all the girls at the sleepover got a terrible case of food poisoning. The time before that, there was a hostage situation in the Bits that Geralt needed to go take care of. But tonight, there are no emergencies. The Witcher cell phone in Geralt’s pocket stays silent, as do both of their civilian cell phones. 

They linger for hours at the restaurant, eating decadent food, drinking wine, and talking. Geralt’s eyes seem to glow in the candlelight and he looks splendid in the bottle green sweater Jaskier talked him into buying a couple of months ago— a rare splash of color in his wardrobe. Jaskier can’t take his eyes off him.

Everything is perfect.

By the time they leave the restaurant, it’s started to snow and the cobblestone sidewalks are dusted with a fine layer of powdery white. Since it’s only a few blocks to their apartment, they decide to walk home, both pleasantly buzzed on Toussainti wine and the promise of a Ciri-free apartment waiting for them. Jaskier slips his arm through Geralt’s as they walk and tilts back his head to catch snowflakes on his tongue. Geralt laughs at his antics, watching Jaskier in that fond way that puts butterflies in Jaskier’s stomach, even after all these years.

He loves it when Geralt looks at him like that, like he’s the best thing Geralt has ever laid eyes on.

“Something on your mind, my love?” Jaskier asks when Geralt doesn’t look away.

“Lots of things are on my mind.”

“Gods, I hope one of those things is sex, because it’s been _ages._ ”

“It hasn’t even been a week.”

“ _Ages_ , Geralt.”

Geralt laughs and turns to pull him close. They’re standing under a street light and the snow seems to glitter in the air around them. With no one else on the street, it seems like they’re in a world of their own. Jaskier loves snow when he doesn’t have anywhere he needs to be. It seems to cast a hush over the city, bringing a sense of calm with it.

“You have snowflakes on your eyelashes,” Geralt tells him.

Jaskier bats said eyelashes. “Do I?”

“It looks good.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s face in his hands. “Jask.”

The soft way his boyfriend whispers his name makes Jaskier melt.

“I love you so much,” Geralt continues. “You’re one of the most important people in my life.”

“It’s okay, I understand that Roach is number one.”

Geralt snorts, his thumb caressing Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me. Every morning when I wake up with you next to me, I fall a little bit more in love with you. Jaskier, I—”

“Jaskier! Geralt!”

Jaskier whirls around at the sound of a woman’s anguished voice, but all he sees is the back of Geralt’s head as his boyfriend steps in between Jaskier and the newcomer. Jaskier peers around him to see a figure stumbling towards them, clutching her hip. The street is well-lit, but her identity is obscured by the hood of the heavy winter jacket she’s wearing. It’s not until she looks up at them and Jaskier takes in her wide dark eyes and wavy brown hair that he realizes who it is. 

“Renfri?” Jaskier rushes to meet her, mind racing. Last time Renfri responded to one of his emails, she told him she was “somewhere warm.” He liked to picture her on a beach somewhere, enjoying her retirement from revenge. It was a naive hope, but that’s never stopped Jaskier. “What happened?”

“Had a rough night.” Renfri’s voice is raw with pain.

Jaskier is about to ask what she’s doing back in Novigrad, but she loses her balance and stumbles into his arms. When he presses his hand against her hip, his palm comes back slick with blood. “Fuck, Geralt, she’s hurt.”

She lets out a weak little chuckle. “Not that bad.”

“Oh, don’t even start with that. What happened?” Jaskier looks up at Geralt, who is already scanning the street for threats, one of his hands resting on the inside of his coat where he keeps a knife. The only other person in sight is a man walking his dog down the block.

Renfri's breathing is labored. “I got shot,” Renfri says.

“Did they follow you?” Geralt asks, voice tight.

“I think I lost him when I got on the bus,” Renfri says. “And I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a winged motorcycle helmet.”

Jaskier feels his breath catch in his throat.

Geralt reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a small vial of black potion.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, but his boyfriend is already downing the potion in one gulp.

When Geralt turns to face Jaskier and Renfri, his eyes are turning the inky black of his Witcher form while darkened veins crawl over his chalk white skin. It feels surreal to see Geralt like this outside of his Witcher gear, in the nice woollen jacket Jaskier got him as a Yule present a few years ago.

“I take it you know him?” Renfri asks.

“We hope not.” It’s just a motorcycle helmet, Jaskier tells himself, trying to push down the wave of panic he can feel rising. Cahir couldn’t possibly be the only person on the Continent who wears a winged motorcycle helmet. There’s no guarantee that the man who shot Renfri is the assassin who has been haunting Jaskier’s dreams for nearly two years now.

“Get her inside.” The potion has turned Geralt’s voice low and growly.

Jaskier swallows. “But what about you?”

“I need to make sure that Cahir didn’t follow Renfri.”

“But your gear—”

“No time. I’m not letting him anywhere near the apartment.” The _“near you”_ doesn’t have to be said.

“Geralt, you barely survived the last time—”

“I’ll be back, Jask. Just get Renfri inside, lock the doors, and call Yennefer to tell her what happened.”

Jaskier wants to argue, but Renfri is shivering in his arms and he knows he needs to get her inside. “Be careful,” he whispers.

Geralt’s expression softens. “I love you,” he says and then he turns and vanishes into the snow.

***

Geralt keeps his knife held close to his side as he stalks through the streets. The snow is falling harder now, making visibility more difficult and driving most people inside. But the potion flowing through Geralt’s veins makes it so he can hear the chatter in the houses he passes by, an animal of some kind rifling through a trashcan in an alleyway, the heartbeat of the woman who hurries by him, her head bent against the snow. His own heartbeat, slowed by the potion, still seems to pound in his throat.

Cahir shouldn't be alive. Over a year and a half ago, Geralt drove a sword through his chest and dropped him off a bridge. But he was never sure of the extent of Cahir’s capabilities. Maybe the assassin was able to survive.

But if he has been alive all this time, wouldn’t he have come after Jaskier and Geralt earlier? Wouldn’t he have wanted to finish what he started when he cut a swath through superpowered vigilantes all over the Continent?

There’s the crunch of footsteps behind him and Geralt ducks into the shadows, but it’s just a kid only wearing a pair of jeans and a U Novigrad sweatshirt, hugging himself as he jogs to wherever he’s going. Geralt steps back into the shadows so the boy won’t see his black eyes and the darkened veins crawling over his face.

Geralt feels exposed without his armor, with nothing but his knife as a weapon. But if Cahir is out here, Geralt needs to find him. He needs to keep him away from Jaskier.

With vivid clarity, he remembers Jaskier kneeling on the floor of his closet, staring up at Geralt with naked terror in his eyes. He can still smell the fear and blood, hear the panicked thrum of Jaskier’s heartbeat. That won’t happen again. Geralt won’t let it.

Geralt stops on the sidewalk, looking around. If Cahir did follow Renfri, he’s staying out of sight. Or maybe Renfri was able to lose him and he’s still on the other side of the city.

“If you’re out there,” Geralt says in a soft voice, only loud enough so that someone with advanced hearing would be able to hear him. “You should know that I’m not going to let you touch him. I threw you off a fucking bridge once. I’ll do it again. Stay away from him and I won’t have to.”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but his only answer is silence.

***

Renfri refuses to submit to the indignity of being carried, so they struggle up the three flights of stairs to Jaskier’s apartment. Once they get inside, he lowers her on the couch and rushes to get some towels to staunch the bleeding.

When he returns, she tugs down the waistband of her leggings to reveal a tidy bullet hole in the meaty part of her hip. It doesn’t seem to have hit an artery, or she probably would have bled out before she made it to Jaskier and Geralt, but there’s still a concerning amount of blood.

“I need to call Yennefer,” Jaskier says.

“Magical healing won’t work on me, remember?” Renfri shrugs. “My body heals quickly. I should be good as new in a day or two.”

“There’s a bullet lodged in your hip, Renfri. I don’t see an exit wound.”

“I’ve had bullets in worse places,” she says. “Just give me a pair of tweezers and a needle and thread and I’ll take care of it myself.”

“That’s a terrible idea. With how badly your hands are shaking, you should not be performing medical procedures on yourself.”

“Then you dig it out of me.”

“What about me makes it seem like I’m qualified to perform medical procedures?” Jaskier hesitates, knowing she’s not going to like what he has to say next. “We should take you to a hospital, Free.”

“No,” Renfri growls. “I walk into a hospital in Novigrad, I’ll walk out in handcuffs.”

He can’t argue with that. “You need medical care. You need stitches. You may need a blood transfusion.”

“I’d rather bleed out than end up in a prison cell.”

“Well, that’s unnecessarily dramatic.” Jaskier goes to rub his eyes, remembers that his hands are covered in blood, and lets them fall to his side. “I’m not going to let you bleed out.”

“Not your fault that I got shot. It was my own damn fault.” Renfri closes her eyes and sinks further into the couch.

“What are you doing back in Novigrad, Renfri?”

“It’s a long story. One I don’t have the energy for right now.”

Renfri is only a couple of years younger than Jaskier, but she looks very young and very small right now. He lets out a long breath. “What if there’s someone I could call?”

“Not your detective friend.”

“No, not Mousesack.” The detective is willing to overlook a lot when it comes to Jaskier and Geralt, but harboring a known killer with dozens of warrants out for her arrest would most likely be his limit.

Renfri opens her eyes to regard Jaskier suspiciously. “Someone you trust?”

“With my life.”

“Go ahead then.”

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, leaving bloody fingerprints on the screen as he unlocks it and finds Shani’s contact. The call rings for so long that he thinks she might have let it go to voicemail, until she picks it up with a tired, “Jask? I just got off my shift and I’m fucking beat, so unless someone is dead—”

“No one is dead,” Jaskier says. “If I told you that I had someone on my couch right now with a bullet wound in her hip, what would you say?”

Shani is quiet for a long moment. “I would say you should take her to the ER.”

“She can’t go to the ER. She may or may not be wanted for murder.”

“What the fuck, Jaskier?”

“Look, she’s bleeding a lot and she’s immune to magic, so I can’t call Yennefer.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“Extremely, but not to us.”

“Why the fuck do you have a murderer on your couch? Are you okay? Are you in danger?”

“It’s a long story, yes, and not at the moment.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “Please, Shani. You know I wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t important. She’s a friend. I can’t let her die.”

“Melitele’s fucking tits.” Shani lets out a long breath. “I’ll be there in ten. In the meantime, keep pressure on the wound.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier hangs up and turns to find Renfri watching him suspiciously. “What?”

“Is she going to call the cops?” Renfri demands.

“Most likely not. Put pressure on the wound. I need to make a call.”

He calls Yennefer, who picks up with a, “How did I know you two wouldn’t be able to make it through a single night without shit hitting the fan?”

“How do you know shit is hitting the fan?”

“You’re on the phone with me instead of having your tongue jammed down Geralt’s throat.”

In the background, Jaskier hears Ciri say, “Gross.”

Jaskier doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Renfri is back.”

“Of course she is,” Yennefer says at the same time Renfri says, “Tell her I say hi.”

Jaskier ignores Renfri. “Cahir might be too.”

“Are you sure?” Yennefer asks sharply.

Jaskier gives her a brief recap of events. “Shani is coming over to take care of Renfri’s wound. Just keep an eye out, okay? If Cahir is alive and back in town, he might come after you and Ciri.”

“He won’t make it a step inside before I incinerate him,” she says. “Do you need me?”

 _“Yes,”_ Jaskier wants to say, because Yennefer is his friend and he knows that having her here would help chip away at some of the acrid terror he can feel gnawing at him. Instead, he says, “No, if whoever shot Renfri tries to follow her, you and Ciri will be safer at your place.”

“But you’re alone.”

Jaskier darts a glance at the fire escape, which is mercifully empty. “I’m not alone. I have Renfri.”

Who has a gunshot wound in her hip and won’t be in fighting condition anytime soon, but pointing that out doesn’t seem encouraging.

“Just be careful,” Yennefer says. “And call me if anything happens. _Anything,_ Jaskier.”

“I will, Yenn.” Jaskier says his goodbyes and hangs up, then stands there for a long moment with his eyes closed. He can picture kneeling in his closet, his own terrified reflection visible in the visor of Cahir’s helmet, with vivid clarity as if it had happened yesterday. He draws in a shaky breath.

“Who is this Cahir?” Renfri asks.

Jaskier hesitates, remembering the gun and the closet and the terror. “He’s the one who killed the Lioness of Cintra and her husband, along with about twenty other superpowered vigilantes all over the Continent. When he came after Geralt, he—” He breaks off, unable to continue.

Renfri doesn’t seem to need a further explanation. “If he shows up here, I’ll hold him off. You run.”

“That seems like an absolutely terrible idea.”

She shrugs. “What can I say, I like terrible ideas.”

Jaskier’s intercom rings and when he goes to answer it, Shani’s voice says, “I’m here.” It’s hard to read tone over the intercom, but Jaskier doesn’t think she sounds happy.

Jaskier buzzes her up. When she knocks on the door a moment later, Jaskier opens the door to find her standing in the doorway in her scrubs, looking furious. “Okay, Jaskier,” she says. “Now, what the fuck is going on?”

He steps back to admit her into the apartment. “Thank you for coming over.”

“I’m a doctor, I’m not going to just let someone bleed out on your fucking couch, not even—” Shani stops dead when she spots Renfri on the couch. “Is that the Shrike?”

“Hello.” Renfri smiles wanly. “You must be the one who’s here to patch me up.”

“I did tell you she was an accused murderer,” Jaskier points out.

Shani whirls on him. “I think that’s a little bit of an understatement. She _kidnapped_ you.”

“Only a little.”

“Jaskier, she’s wanted for murder in every country on the Continent. And now she’s on your couch!”

“Not Kerack,” Renfri pipes up. “Mostly because I’ve never been to Kerack.”

“It’s not worth it,” Jaskier tells her. “Cidaris has better beaches.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

Shani is looking between Renfri and Jaskier with an expression that’s somewhere between shock and fury. “Jaskier, I’ll ask you again. What the fuck?”

“Can you maybe talk about this once the bullet is out of my hip?” Renfri asks. “Starting to get a little light-headed over here.”

Shani closes her eyes, then opens them and glares at Jaskier. “I’m going to need a full explanation. And when shit hits the fan, I’m not going to jail for you. Also, you owe me a drink.”

Jaskier lets out a relieved breath. “Shani, you get that bullet out of her, you can have all the drinks.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Melitele’s fucking tits,” Shani says. “Geralt, what happened to your eyes?”  
>  “Renfri wouldn’t go to a hospital,” Jaskier tells him under his breath.  
> “Well, fuck.” Geralt lets go of Jaskier and turns to Shani and Renfri. “Hi, Shani.”  
> For a moment, Shani stares at Geralt with something between shock and concern. And then realization crosses her face. “You’re the Witcher.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the comments and kudos on the first chapter! I'm so glad so many of you are still excited about this series.
> 
> Thanks to dls for betaing!

Jaskier sits in the armchair and watches Shani work. The bullet that his friend dug out of Renfri’s hip sits in a cereal bowl that Jaskier is never going to be able to use again. Shani is busy stitching up the wound, brow furrowed in concentration. Renfri has her eyes closed and her head tilted back, but Jaskier can tell she’s conscious from the tension in her jaw and the way her fists are clenched in her lap.

“At a hospital, there would be painkillers,” Shani says, more to herself than to Jaskier or Renfri.

“Yeah, there would also be cops.” Renfri shakes her head. “Anyway, I’ve never liked hospitals. Bring back too many memories.”

Shani doesn’t ask her to elaborate. “There could be complications—”

“My body will heal itself within a day or two.” Renfri’s lips twitch at the expression on Shani’s face. “I’m pretty durable. One of the bright sides of all the mutations.”

“Mutations? You know what, I don’t want to know.” Shani tosses another blood-soaked towel aside. “How did the two of you become friends again?”

“Well,” Jaskier says. “After the kind-of kidnapping—”

“The one where she lured you out of a club, drugged you, and tied you up in a basement?”

“I untied him when he asked!” Renfri protests.

Jaskier nods. “She did. Anyway, Geralt and I helped her deal with Stregobor—”

“Stregobor?” Shani turns to stare at Jaskier. “The CEO of Black Sun Industries?”

“Former.” Renfri doesn’t even try to hide her smugness. “He’s dead now.”

“Wait,” Shani says. “What does Geralt have to do with—”

There’s a tap at the balcony door behind Jaskier and he flinches. Looking over his shoulder, he finds Geralt standing on the balcony. Knees suddenly shaky with relief, Jaskier goes to throw open the balcony door.

“Are you okay?” In the worry about Renfri’s wound and having to involve Shani, Jaskier managed to push some of his concern about Geralt to the back of his mind. But now that Geralt is in front of him, Jaskier feels all the terror he was suppressing starting to rise.

“I’m fine. No sign of Cahir, or anyone else in a winged motorcycle helmet.” Geralt steps inside and lets Jaskier pull him into a hug. When he catches sight of Shani, he goes still.

“Melitele’s fucking tits,” Shani says. “Geralt, what happened to your eyes?”

“Renfri wouldn’t go to a hospital,” Jaskier tells him under his breath. 

“Well, fuck.” Geralt lets go of Jaskier and turns to Shani and Renfri. “Hi, Shani.”

For a moment, Shani stares at Geralt with something between shock and concern. And then realization crosses her face. “You’re the Witcher.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s expecting from Geralt. Probably denial, since it took Geralt three years before he told Jaskier the truth of his identity, and he didn’t really so much _tell_ Jaskier as he did show up bleeding at Jaskier’s apartment in the middle of the night. So he’s surprised when Geralt simply says, “I am.”

Jaskier can see Shani reevaluating the entirety of the last four years. “So all those sketchy late night walks you used to go on—”

“Were patrols,” Geralt says.

“And when you showed up smelling like Yennefer—”

“He nearly died fighting the man who tried to kill me that night,” Jaskier says. “Yennefer spent the whole night healing him. That’s why Geralt smelled like her.”

Shani looks between them. “So you didn’t—”

Jaskier shakes his head. “He and Yenn never slept together, Shani. It was all a misunderstanding.”

“How long have you known?” she asks.

“Since right before we got back together.” Jaskier leans against Geralt’s side and his boyfriend puts an arm around him.

Renfri cracks one eye open. “Look, I’m so glad that we’re all friends again and that everyone loves each other, but there’s still a hole in my hip, so can it wait?”

Shani turns back to her. “I see the mutations don’t help with the whining.”

Renfri snorts. “I like you.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Jaskier says. “She has a girlfriend who’s way scarier than you.”

Renfri laughs, then sobers as Geralt goes to sit on the couch next to her.

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’ll live,” she says.

Geralt looks to Shani for confirmation, visibly relaxing when she nods. “You’re lucky. If it was Cahir, he’s a good shot.”

“Then it might not be him.” Jaskier is desperate for any hope that it’s not actually Cahir who may be coming after them. “He should be dead.”

Geralt runs his hands through his hair. “I thought so.”

Renfri smiles a humorless smile. “Well, if Cahir’s the one who shot me, he’s a corpse with excellent marksmanship.”

***

After Shani is done patching Renfri up, Geralt insists on walking her to her car. The walk down to the street is uncomfortably quiet, but Geralt was expecting that. Essi and Shani haven’t had much to say to him since he broke Jaskier’s heart, and he can’t blame them for that. It’s been over a year since their reconciliation, and Geralt still feels sick when he thinks of what he put Jaskier through.

But Geralt has missed Essi and Shani’s friendship. The two women are delightful company and he always felt something of a kinship with Shani, the more cynical of the pair. He wonders if Shani learning his identity as the Witcher will improve her opinion of him or make it worse.

When they get to the car, Shani turns to face him. “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say to you right now.”

Geralt shrugs. “You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to.”

She eyes him suspiciously. “Why put him through all that? Why not tell him who you were?”

“I was trying to keep him safe,” Geralt says lamely.

Shani snorts. “I’m not going to lie to Essi about what happened tonight. I won’t.”

“Not going to ask you to.”

She was clearly gearing up for an argument, but she snaps her mouth closed.

“Just…” Geralt takes a deep breath. “I have a lot of enemies as the Witcher. The more people who know, the more likely it is that one of those enemies will find me here. And then they’ll also find Jaskier and Ciri.”

“Then why keep doing it, if it puts them in danger?”

“Because I’ve been doing it for the last twenty-one years. Don’t think I could stop if I tried.” Geralt has thought about it occasionally, putting aside the Witcher mantle forever. Packing away the armor and the swords, only keeping a couple of bottles of potion around for an emergency. Having his cover identity as Geralt Rivia, mild-mannered reporter, becomes his true identity. But he knows it would never work. Something would happen and Geralt would be drawn back into being the Witcher again. He’s lived this life too long to leave it.

She tilts her head to the side and regards him with narrowed eyes. “So you’re not asking me to lie to Essi, just telling me it could put Jaskier and your kid in danger if I don’t.”

When stated so flatly, it makes Geralt grimace. “Lying to Jaskier about being the Witcher is my biggest regret. I won’t ask that of anyone else.”

“Well, that’s something.” Shani nods and opens the car door. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad that you’re not as much of a piece of shit as I thought you were.”

“Hm,” is Geralt's only reply, since there doesn’t seem to be anything better to say.

“When you bought the ring, Essi and I were about ready to kidnap Jaskier and stage an intervention.”

“He hasn’t been kidnapped yet this year. I’d like to keep it that way, if it’s all the same to you.”

“We’re only halfway through January.”

“Well aware.”

She snorts. “I guess this explains all the trouble he gets into.”

“I’m only responsible for a fraction of the times Jaskier has gotten into trouble,” Geralt tells her. “He gets into things he shouldn’t just fine on his own.”

“Don’t I know it.” Shani rolls her eyes.

Geralt’s lips twitch. “Drive safe.”

He watches until she’s safely in the car and has pulled away from the curb before he does one last quick scan of the street and heads back up to his apartment. The smell of blood is still strong in the air when he steps through the door, but Renfri is asleep on the couch, curled up under a blanket. He finds Jaskier and Roach in their bedroom, Roach already sprawled across the bed while Jaskier strips out of his bloodstained clothes. When Geralt walks into the room, Jaskier turns to face him, eyes filled with barely contained fear.

Geralt holds out his arms to Jaskier and his boyfriend walks into them. Geralt holds Jaskier as tight as he can without hurting him, burying his face in Jaskier’s hair. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, though things don’t feel okay right now.

“If it’s really Cahir—”

“I know.” Geralt closes his eyes.

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath. “If he comes after us here—”

“He won’t come near you or Ciri, Jask. I’m not going to let anything happen to either of you.”

“He’s _dead._ ” Jaskier’s voice cracks. “He’s supposed to be gone.”

“I stabbed him and shoved him off a bridge,” Geralt says. “I have a hard time believing that he survived that.”

“But what if he did?”

“Then he still won’t get near you or Ciri.” Geralt steps back so he can look Jaskier in the eyes, cupping his boyfriend’s face in his hands.

Geralt spent all night waiting for the perfect time to ask Jaskier to marry him. And he thought he had found it when they were standing outside in the snow, snowflakes glittering in Jaskier’s hair and dancing in the air around them. Jaskier smiling and rosy-cheeked from the cold and looking at Geralt with so much love in his eyes. It should have been the perfect moment. It _was_ the perfect moment, the kind Jaskier would rhapsodize about for years to come.

Geralt wishes he could go back to that moment.

“I love you,” he tells Jaskier.

“I love you too.” Jaskier’s smile is shaky. “We’ll deal with this together.”

Geralt nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’m going to go shower,” Jaskier says, still wearing that pantomime of a smile. “I thought I cleaned all of Renfri’s blood off, but I still feel sticky. Think the clothes might be a loss.”

Geralt looks down at the crumpled, bloodstained blue shirt. “I’ll replace them.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Jaskier nudges the shirt with his foot. “No one expected there to be blood on date night.”

“Probably should have.”

“This is what we get for being optimistic.”

They exchange fond looks and Geralt says, “Enjoy your shower.”

As soon as Jaskier slips out of the room, Geralt takes the ring box out of his pocket and pops it open to examine the ring. The little sapphire winks up at him. With a groan, Geralt snaps the box shut and goes to stash it in his underwear drawer.

There will be another perfect moment eventually, he tells himself. There has to be.

***

Shani has gotten used to the smell of blood. She has to, working in a hospital. All the antiseptic and Lysol in the world doesn’t totally get rid of it. She’s just used to dealing with blood in the confines of the ER, where it’s expected. She’s not used to dealing with it at her best friend’s apartment, on the very couch where she’s sat during so many movie nights. She can still smell it when she lets herself into her apartment. As soon as she gets home, she hops into the shadow and stands under the stream of hot water until her skin is scrubbed pink and the bathroom is thick with fog. It’s only then that she changes into a pair of pajamas and goes to slip into bed.

Essi never waits up for Shani— she would never get a good night’s sleep if she did— but she always wakes up when her girlfriend gets home. As Shani slips into bed, she hears a sleepy murmur, “You’re home late. Everything okay?”

Shani hesitates.

She doesn’t lie to Essi. She was raised by parents who never talked to each other. She knows where that road leads.

But she hears Geralt’s voice echoing in her head. _“The more people who know, the more likely it is that one of those enemies will find me here. And then they’ll also find Jaskier and Ciri.”_

Jaskier is her best friend. If she did something to put him in danger, she would never forgive herself.

“Just a busy shift,” she hears herself whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

And as Essi snuggles against her, Shani tells herself that she’ll figure it out in the morning.

***

Jaskier wakes the next morning to the sound of voices. He reaches for Geralt, but finds his boyfriend’s side of the bed already empty. That isn't unusual— Geralt is an earlier riser than Jaskier most days— but the memory of the night before hits Jaskier like a bucket of ice water to the face.

Renfri. Cahir. Shani.

His eyes flicker to the closed closet door.

_“Tell me where your boyfriend is and you don’t have to die.”_

The bedroom door opens and Jaskier starts, heart suddenly thundering in his throat. But it’s just Geralt, looking as exhausted as Jaskier feels. “Yennefer brought Ciri back,” Geralt says. “We all need to talk.”

Jaskier scrubs his hand over his face. “Yeah, of course. Just give me a minute.”

“You okay?” Geralt’s voice softens.

“Yeah.” Jaskier darts another glance at the closet. He can practically feel the press of Cahir’s gun against the back of his head.

Geralt crawls back into bed and pulls Jaskier into a hug. Jaskier leans his weight against his boyfriend and takes a deep, steadying breath, trying to remind himself that he’s here and he’s safe. That terrible night with Cahir was nearly two years ago. Even if Cahir is alive, that doesn’t mean he’s going to come bursting through the door, gun drawn. 

“Will it help if I say they brought bagels?” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “You should have led with that.”

“Hm, silly of me.”

Jaskier grudgingly extricates himself from his boyfriend’s arms and pulls on a pair of pants. They head into the kitchen to find Yennefer, Ciri, and Renfri gathered around the kitchen table, Yennefer and Ciri both looking like they’re at a funeral while Renfri contentedly munches on a bagel.

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier asks Renfri.

“Hungry,” she says through a mouthful of bagel. “Healing always leaves me ravenous.”

“Same with Geralt,” Jaskier says. “He ate four cheeseburgers once.”

Ciri is watching Renfri with a deeply skeptical expression on her face, arms crossed over her chest.

Renfri seems to notice, because she pushes the bag of bagels towards the girl like a peace offering. “You can relax. I’m not here to stab anyone.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Ciri growls.

“Ciri.” There’s enough of a warning in Geralt’s voice that Ciri rolls her eyes and lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Am I the only one who remembers that she kidnapped Jaskier and nearly killed you?” she demands of Geralt.

“No.” Yennefer is taking her time spreading cream cheese on a poppy seed bagel, handling the butter knife like she’s ready to stab someone with it.

“He survived.” Renfri gestures at Geralt, who is leaning against the counter, looking faintly exasperated. “Look at him! Completely alive.”

“No thanks to you,” Ciri says.

Jaskier sighs and reaches for a cinnamon raisin bagel. This might last for a while.

“We have bigger problems to worry about right now,” Geralt says, cutting off Renfri’s reply. “What are you doing back in Novigrad, Renfri? No bullshit.”

With a sigh, Renfri puts down the remnants of her bagel. “I didn’t plan on coming back.”

“What, you stumbled over the Vizimir Bridge by accident?” Yennefer asks acidly.

“Try to contain your excitement to see me,” Renfri says. “After we parted ways last year, I still had some business to take care of.”

“People to kill, you mean?” Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest and regards the Shrike with a guarded expression.

Renfri lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “There were still people connected to Project Lilit alive and out there. Should I have let child murderers go free? The nurse who ran a betting pool on which of us would die next? The doctor who really enjoyed administering the electroshock therapy?”

There’s a beat of silence.

When no one answers her, Renfri continues, “The last doctor, Hans Geiger, was a particularly sadistic son of a bitch. When I tracked him down in Metinna, I found that he had held onto mementos of Project Lilit.”

Jaskier feels a sick feeling rising in his stomach. The bagel in his hand seems less and less appealing.

“I looked through them all.” Renfri looks as sick as Jaskier feels. “I know that Black Sun Industries conducted other experiments on top of Project Lilit. I thought maybe I could find evidence of other survivors.”

“Did you?” Geralt asks.

“No,” she says. “Instead, I found that after Project Lilit, Geiger left Black Sun Industries entirely. Apparently, he found another employer.”

At that, Jaskier puts his bagel down. “What kind of employer?”

“Have you ever heard of the Emperor?”

To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt snorts.

Renfri raises an eyebrow at him. “Something funny, Witcher?”

“The Emperor is a myth.”

“Some people say the time thing about superpowered vigilantes.”

Ciri looks between them. “Who is the Emperor?”

“He’s a bogeyman that people use to blame for their own crimes,” Geralt says. “They rob a bank or get found standing over a dead body, they say the Emperor made them do it. It’s all rumors and speculation.”

“Rumors and speculation that have gotten a lot of people killed.” There’s an edge to Renfri’s voice. “He’s a mob boss, but one who prefers to work from the shadows, controlling things from behind the scenes. The stories about him started down in Nilfgaard about fifteen years or so ago.”

“None of those stories have ever been corroborated,” Geralt says. “Most of them are far-fetched, at best.”

“Like what?” Jaskier asks.

“Assassinating the Nilfgaardian prime minister, for one, and replacing her with a figurehead that’s in his pocket.”

Jaskier frowns. “Didn’t the Nilfgaardian prime minister die of a heart attack?”

“Yes.” Yennefer waves a hand dismissively. “Like Geralt says, it’s all hearsay. We looked into it, back when rumors of the Emperor first started circulating, and found nothing substantial.”

Renfri lips thin in annoyance. “Rumors didn’t burn the motel where I was staying down, destroying all the records I’d taken from the doctor’s house. Rumors didn’t track me from Metinna to Nazair to Novigrad. Rumors didn’t shoot me in the hip.”

“But what makes you think that the person responsible is the Emperor?” Yennefer asks. “There are plenty of reasons someone would want to kill you. You’ve made quite a few enemies.”

“You’re not wrong,” Renfri says. “But as soon as I started looking into the Emperor, people started trying to kill me. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. If he were a myth, someone wouldn’t be so eager to shut me up.”

“What did you find in Geiger’s house that made you think the Emperor is involved in the first place?” Jaskier asks.

Renfri rattles off the list of records she found in the doctors house, including documentation of a set of experiments conducted on members of the military from Nilfgaard and the other Southern Kingdoms. Everyone listens in silence as she talks about the soldiers who went missing during routine missions or were declared killed in action, though no bodies were ever returned to their families.

“Cahir,” Geralt says when she’s done. When everyone turns to look at him, he adds, “Cahir was Nilfgaardian Special Forces. He went missing during a training exercise in the Korath Desert. He didn’t reappear until he started killing superpowered people all over the Continent.”

“Well, that would explain why he shot me yesterday, since I’ve been researching the man who created him for months,” Renfri says.

“You think the Emperor created Cahir?”

Renfri gives him an arch look. “Does this mean you believe in the Emperor now?”

“Not necessarily,” Geralt says. “But I’m willing to keep an open mind.”

“According to the doctor’s notes, there weren’t many survivors of the experiments. Only a few. He suggested that experimenting on children might be more effective.” Her mouth twists in disgust. “But apparently the Emperor has more scruples than Stregobor did, because he vetoed that idea.”

Jaskier turns to Geralt. “The night that Cahir attacked me, someone called him. That’s why he didn’t kill me. He got a phone call, so he left. Maybe it was the Emperor?” He has to resist the urge to rub the back of his head where the gun was pressed.

“Or Cahir could have been working for anybody,” Yennefer says.

Renfri shoots her an exasperated look. “Well, whoever Cahir is working for, they’ve chased me across the whole fucking Continent.”

“And you led them here.” Yennefer’s tone sharpens. “To Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri.”

Renfri winces at that. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other options, trust me. I meant it when I said I would never come back to Novigrad.”

Yennefer doesn’t look mollified.

“I can leave.” Renfri turns to Geralt. “Say the word, and I’ll be out of here as soon as my hip heals up.”

Jaskier answers before Geralt or Yennefer can, because there’s no way he’s going to let Renfri go out on her own when someone wants to kill her. “No, we’re going to help you, Renfri.” He looks between Geralt and Yennefer pointedly. “Right?”

Geralt looks from Yennefer, who looks like she just found something many-legged and hairy in her cream cheese, to Renfri. “We’ll help you, but if you put Jaskier or Ciri in danger, you’re gone.”

Renfri smiles wanly. “You don’t need to worry about that, Geralt. You know me, always keeping my head down.”

***

“This is a terrible fucking idea,” Yennefer tells Geralt as soon as breakfast is cleared away. Jaskier and Renfri are in the other room, while Ciri is shut up in her bedroom, probably still angry about Renfri’s presence.

Geralt sighs. “Well aware.”

“I don’t believe for a second that the person who’s after her is the Emperor, but that doesn’t mean the person trying to kill her isn’t dangerous. Think about Ciri.”

“I _am_ thinking about Ciri. If Cahir’s still alive, we need all the people on our side we can get. I barely survived fighting him last time.”

“I remember.” Yennefer tries not to. The night was the closest to death she’s ever seen Geralt. She’ll never forget the moment she found him bleeding and unconscious on the Pontar River Bridge and was convinced that she was too late.

“Once he was done with me, he was going to go after Ciri. And I might not trust Renfri, but I think if it comes down to it, she’ll have our backs.”

“If you say so.” Yennefer will never trust the Shrike farther than she can throw her, no matter what Geralt says.

“She helped save Jaskier’s life.”

“After she’s the one who made him a target.”

“Which I’ve apologized for!” Renfri calls from the other room. “Is now a good time to mention that one of my mutations is heightened hearing?”

Yennefer and Geralt stare at each other in silence for a moment.

“I don’t like anything about this,” Yennefer tells Geralt. Ciri is like a daughter to her and Jaskier is like a brother. The thought of either of them being in danger fills her with dread.

“Neither do I. But if Cahir is still alive, Ciri and Jaskier are going to be on his radar whether or not Renfri is here. He enjoyed terrorizing Jaskier, Yenn. It was _fun_ for him.” Geralt’s expression tightens. “I’m not going to let that happen again, even if it means trusting Renfri.”

“I just hope she turns out to be trustworthy.” Yennefer makes no attempt to lower her voice so that Renfri won’t be able to hear.

Geralt looks away, expression grim. “So do I.”

***

Since Jaskier and Geralt got back together, Geralt has made an effort to include Jaskier in his life as the Witcher. Jaskier has been invaluable— good-looking and charming enough that even the most suspicious individuals are willing to open up to him. However, Jaskier is also a magnet for trouble, so Geralt has insisted that he start learning how to defend himself. In the months since they started training, Jaskier has become stronger and increased his stamina dramatically.

That doesn’t stop him from bitching endlessly every time Geralt drags him out of bed to train in the courtyard behind their apartment building. The neighbors, bless them, think that Geralt is very into kickboxing and is sharing his passion with his boyfriend and kid. Several of them have commented on how cute it is that they spend time together every morning.

But when Geralt brings him and Ciri outside to train on Monday morning before the crack of dawn, Jaskier is surprisingly quiet. He goes through their drills methodically, with none of his usual dramatics.

“Everything alright?” Geralt asks after Jaskier does burpees without so much as a whimper about inhumane treatment.

“Everything’s fine.”

“You’re just…” Geralt trails off, not sure how to phrase it delicately.

“You’re a lot less whiny than usual,” Ciri supplies. While she doesn’t care for the early mornings either, her eagerness to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps as a vigilante outstrips her desire to stay in bed for another hour.

Jaskier makes an irritated noise. “I do not _whine._ ”

Geralt snorts skeptically at the same time that Ciri says, “You sure do, Jask.”

“I’m just focused on my training.” Jaskier huffs. “It’s hard work honing my body into the perfect fighting machine.”

Ciri and Geralt exchange skeptical looks.

“I saw that.” Jaskier plants his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry that I’m not a natural born warrior like the two of you, but I’m just a normal human.”

“With superhuman whining abilities,” Ciri says.

“You are grounded.” Jaskier points at her. “Forever.”

“Until you and Geralt want another date night?”

“I—” Jaskier splutters. “Yes, until Geralt and I want another date night.”

Geralt chuckles, relieved to see a crack in the tension Jaskier has been carrying since Friday night. He can tell that his boyfriend is terrified and Geralt can’t blame him. The last few days have forced Jaskier to relive one of the worst nights of his life.

Geralt can protect Jaskier from serial killers, assassins, and crime bosses, but he can’t protect the man he loves from his own terrifying memories. The best he can do is make sure that Jaskier can protect himself.

“Twenty-five more,” he tells Jaskier and Jaskier drops to do a burpee without a single protest.

***

Jaskier finds Shani in Pontar River Park after he gets off work that afternoon. He can tell his friend is on edge as soon as he sees her; her posture is oddly stiff.

“I hate this,” she tells him as soon as he’s in earshot. “I fucking hate lying to Essi, Jask.”

Jaskier grimaces. “You don’t have to lie to Essi.”

“Really? Because your boyfriend made it sound like I’ve as good as murdered you if I say a word.”

“Geralt can be a bit intense about these things.” Jaskier hands her the coffee he brought her. “He’s not trying to terrify you, but he can’t always help it.”

“I just can’t picture him—” Shani stops and looks around to make sure no one is listening. “Well, you know.”

“Trust me, I know.”

She levels him with a piercing look. “Why did you never tell us?”

“I wasn’t sure how to.”

“You’ve had a year to figure it out.”

“It’s Geralt’s secret,” Jaskier says. “There are maybe a half a dozen of us who know that Geralt is the Witcher. Every person who knows is one more person who someone like Cahir or Mousesack could torture for information. Cahir found out because he tortured that knowledge out of Ciri’s grandparents. That’s not a risk Geralt is willing to take with many people.”

Shani looks a little green. “Well, shit.”

“I don’t think you’re in any danger,” Jaskier says quickly. “There’s no reason for anyone to connect you and Essi to the Witcher. But it’s better safe than sorry, you know? And Geralt is very careful after what happened to Calanthe—”

“Calanthe?”

“Ciri’s grandmother, the Lioness of Cintra. She and Geralt were friends.” At Shani’s gobsmacked expression, Jaskier smiles wryly.”I should probably start at the beginning, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably,” Shani says dryly.

They walk and talk, heads bent against the cold, while Jaskier tells her everything from the saga of the Ghoul to Geralt’s constant waffling about whether or not to tell Jaskier the truth to everything that happened with Cahir to Jaskier finally finding out Geralt’s secret. Shani is silent through most of his story, only occasionally interrupting to ask questions. After he explains being kidnapped by Stregobor and being rescued by Geralt, Renfri, and Yennefer, she’s quiet for a long time.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” she finally asks. “Your boyfriend is a fucking superhero.”

“He hates being called a superhero. He much prefers vigilante.”

“Melitele’s tits, and I thought he was so quiet.”

“He is. He’s also a badass.” Jaskier can’t help but preen a little. It’s nice being able to brag about Geralt to one of his best friends. Geralt deserves to have people be in awe of him.

“It must be terrifying for you.”

“Oh, definitely,” Jaskier says. “Sometimes, I would really like it if he had a hobby that didn’t involve so many guns being pointed at him. But I’m proud of him. He helps people and I wouldn’t have it any other way. And he lets me help him now. He’s teaching me how to fight and everything.”

Shani snorts. “Now that, I can’t imagine.”

“Excuse you, I’m actually getting pretty good!” Jaskier stops to think. “Okay, I can now throw a decent punch and run away from danger without getting too winded.”

“That sounds more like you.”

Jaskier is so busy being offended that he doesn’t notice the man standing in his path until he bumps into him with his shoulder. Jaskier curses and just manages to save his coffee. “Shit, I am so sorry.”

“You should watch where you’re going.”

Jaskier never saw Cahir’s face on that fateful night two years ago. He never saw anything but the black motorcycle helmet that the assassin wore. But he remembers his voice with perfect clarity. He’s heard that soft, pleasant voice so many times in his dreams. Suddenly cold all over, he looks up into Cahir’s pale green eyes.

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“See that spot over there?” Cahir nods to the place where a pair of U Novigrad students are locked in a passionate embrace. “That’s where your boyfriend stabbed me and shoved me into the river. You know, I’ve nearly died a few times in my life. Drowning was my least favorite. The water was freezing.”  
>  Jaskier doesn’t say anything, looking down at the gray water far below.  
> “The only thing that saved me was my mutations. But you, Jaskier, are a normal human. Shoot you and drop you into the river, and you’re not going to survive.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! I would say that that will be the last cliffhanger, but let's be real, you all know what I'm like by now.
> 
> Thank you to dls for betaing!

The world narrows down to Cahir’s cold green eyes and the slight sneer curling his mouth. There are people around them— a pair of children shrieking as they run by, a line of people at the hot dog cart, a group of women sitting on a nearby bench and chatting loudly. Yet they all feel far away, their voices an incomprehensible roar drowned out by the blood rushing in Jaskier’s ears.

“Good to see you, Jaskier.” Cahir’s voice is as low and pleasant as Jaskier remembers. He has one hand tucked underneath his jacket and his posture is as relaxed as if he’s someone who has just run into an acquaintance on an afternoon walk.

“Jaskier?” Shani asks and only then does Jaskier pull himself out of his terrified daze. Because it’s not just him at risk right now.

He steps to the side, planting himself in between Cahir and Shani. “There are people around. You would be stupid to attack me here.”

Cahir tilts his head to the side, smiling like Jaskier is a puppy who just did something cute. “I think you’d be surprised at how oblivious people can be.”

Jaskier takes a step back, pushing Shani along behind him.

“We should take a walk,” Cahir says.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I think you will.” Cahir shifts so that Jaskier can see the outline of the muzzle of a gun pressing through Cahir’s jacket. “Or I’m going to shoot your friend.”

Shani sucks in a breath.

Jaskier swallows. “There are witnesses.”

“Yet, she'll still be dead. Don’t think about trying to make a call on that phone, sweetheart. Hand it over.”

Shani hands her cell phone to Cahir, who pockets it.

“You too, Jaskier,” he says and Jaskier gives his phone to him, trying not to think of all the text messages from Geralt on it. There’s nothing that can be used against Geralt— they keep all their conversations about his Witcher activities to phone calls— but the thought of Cahir or whoever he works for poring over all of their exchanged ‘I love yous’ and requests for milk from the grocery store makes him feel sick.

Shani fists her hand in the back of Jaskier’s jacket. “What’s going on?” she asks in a whisper.

“Everything’s fine,” Jaskier says automatically, even though things couldn’t be less fine.

“Everything is clearly not fine. He has a—”

“Come on, we have a lot to catch up on.” Cahir closes the gap between them and slings an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder in a pantomime of friendliness. “Shani can join us, of course.”

Jaskier looks over and finds Shani staring at him, eyes wide with panic. He needs to get her out of this alive. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Cahir begins to steer him down the path, towards the Pontar River Bridge, with Shani behind them. “No, she doesn’t, but you know what they say. Wrong place, wrong time. Now come on, try to look happy to see me. Like we’re a group of friends out for a walk.”

Jaskier bares his teeth in a pantomime of a smile. “Friends don’t hold guns on friends. Didn’t they teach you that in the military?”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Shani snaps.

Cahir chuckles. “You should listen to Shani. I would have thought you would have learned to be less mouthy after last time.”

“What do you want, Cahir?”

“Just to have a talk.”

Jaskier glances back at Shani, whose face is pale and set. “Then talk to me. There’s no reason for Shani to be here. You can let her go and I’ll cooperate.”

“And then she goes running to the Witcher? I don’t think so.”

“Shani and Geralt really don’t like each other, so—” Jaskier breaks off when he feels the hard press of the gun against his side.

“You’re trying my patience, Jaskier,” Cahir murmurs. “I don’t plan to kill either of you today.”

Jaskier hears the unspoken _but._ “I’ve heard that line before.”

“And I kept my word, didn’t I?”

“Not because you wanted to.” Jaskier takes a shaky breath. “How the fuck are you even alive, anyway?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m hard to kill. Your boyfriend wasn’t up to the task.”

“Is that why you’re back in Novigrad? To give him another chance?”

“No, I’m back in Novigrad because I have business to take care of. How’s the Shrike doing?”

“Safe somewhere you can’t get to her.”

A group of teenagers brush past them, all about Ciri’s age. Cahir tightens his grip on Jaskier’s shoulder. “If you mean your apartment, I’ve gotten in there before. You surround yourself with dangerous people, Jaskier. The Witcher, the Shrike. It’s like you get a thrill out of being in danger. You’re a doctor, Shani. Is there a diagnosis for that? Someone who keeps putting themselves in danger, over and over again?”

“I’m studying to be an ER doctor, not a psychiatrist.” Shani’s voice is remarkably even. “Which I think you know.”

“Of course, my mistake.” To Jaskier’s relief, Cahir turns his attention back to him. “Or is it just that you trust your Witcher to keep you safe from anything too dangerous? Even after how close he’s gotten to letting you get killed so many times?”

“Geralt’s kept me alive this long.” 

“Yes, but his luck will run out eventually.” The three of them start up the Pontar River Bridge. Even though the January day is cold, it’s also sunny and there are plenty of people out walking and biking. None of them pay Cahir, Jaskier, and Shani any mind as they slowly make their way along the path.

“It’s curious how Geralt allows you so close to this side of his life, given all the close calls you’ve had,” Cahir says. “I would think he would want to keep you far away from this.”

“He tried that. It didn’t work out too well for us.”

“No, I suppose it didn’t.” Cahir steers Jaskier towards the edge of the bridge. “Will you look at that view?”

They’re at the highest point of the bridge. They stand there in silence for a moment, looking down at the river like a pair of friends enjoying the view. On the other side of Jaskier, Shani is standing very still, her hands clutching the railing. When her eyes meet Jaskier’s, they glint with helpless fury.

“See that spot over there?” Cahir nods to the place where a pair of U Novigrad students are locked in a passionate embrace. “That’s where your boyfriend stabbed me and shoved me into the river. You know, I’ve nearly died a few times in my life. Drowning was my least favorite. The water was freezing.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, looking down at the gray water far below.

“The only thing that saved me was my mutations. But you, Jaskier, are a normal human. Shoot you and drop you into the river, and you’re not going to survive.”

“No, probably not,” Jaskier says through suddenly numb lips.

“I always wondered how the Witcher could justify keeping someone as fragile as you around all the time. So human.”

“I guess he likes my company.”

“You and Calanthe’s granddaughter do make a sweet little family. What’s her name again? Ciri?”

“Don’t talk about her.” Rage pushes away some of Jaskier’s terror. “Don’t even think about her.”

“It’s interesting that the Witcher decided to take her as a protegee, after Calanthe worked so hard to keep Ciri out of this life.”

“You know, forgive me if I don’t want to discuss our parenting decisions with the man who brutally murdered her grandparents.” Ciri has a dentist appointment this afternoon; she’s probably there right now with Geralt. She’s safe on the other side of the city. Cahir can’t touch her.

“I have no intention of harming her.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gone after a kid.”

“Ciri has her grandmother’s powers, doesn’t she?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“So yes?”

Jaskier grits his teeth and stares down at the water. He wonders if the impact will kill him before he drowns. Or maybe Cahir will just shoot him and he’ll be dead before he even hits the water. Hopefully the resultant chaos would stop him from killing Shani too. Heart thudding in his throat, he asks, “What’s your plan here, Cahir? If you kill me, you have a bridge full of witnesses. You might get away, but enough people will have seen your face that it will make you a significantly less effective assassin.”

“You make a good point.” Cahir digs the gun harder into Jaskier’s ribs.

Jaskier barely manages not to flinch. “So then what now?”

“I want you to pass on a message to your boyfriend.” Cahir’s grip on Jaskier’s shoulder tightens. “I want him to know that I had one of the people he loves most completely at my mercy. I want him to know how easy it would have been to kill you right now. One twitch of my finger, and there goes Jaskier. Snuffed out like a bug.”

Shani makes a small, horrified noise.

“I’ll be sure to let him know.” Jaskier’s voice is hoarse.

“We want him out of Novigrad.”

“We?”

Cahir ignores him. “He has twenty-four hours to pack his things and get the fuck out. ”

“Geralt can’t just leave. He lives here.”

“Not anymore,” Cahir says. “Novigrad doesn’t need someone like him lurking in its alleyways, exacting his brand of justice. It’s best for everyone if he just moves on. And if he doesn’t, well, I’m sure you can imagine what the consequences will be for you.”

Jaskier swallows. His mouth is very dry.

“Tell him that this is the last bit of mercy he’s going to get from me.” Cahir’s voice drops to a growl. “Because if he doesn’t leave Novigrad, I’m going to take everything and everyone he loves. I’m going to destroy his life. I’m going to make it so the Witcher and Geralt Rivia are nothing more than bad memories in this city.”

Jaskier wants to throw up. It’s a struggle to keep his composure. “Seems like a bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. Have you thought about writing a strongly worded—”

Shani reaches out and grabs his arm, digging her fingernails into his skin. Jaskier falls silent.

“I can start right now, Jaskier. Kill the man he loves. Let your little friend live so she can tell him all about how frightened you were in your last moments. I think she’ll be just as effective a messenger as you.”

Jaskier says nothing.

“Good,” Cahir says. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“What does the Emperor think about all of this?”

“I see you’ve been talking to Renfri.”

“She had a lot to say.”

Cahir leans close so Jaskier can feel the tickle of his breath on his ear. “Let’s just say there are plenty of people who want the Witcher out of Novigrad. So here’s what needs to happen, Jaskier. The Witcher hangs up his mantle and finds a nice, quiet place in the country to retire, or he loses everything.”

Jaskier balls his hands into helpless fists. “Whatever you and your boss want, you won’t get it.”

“I think you’ll find that isn’t the case.” Cahir releases Jaskier’s shoulder and takes a step back. “It was nice talking to you, Jaskier. And a pleasure meeting you, Shani. Maybe next time, I’ll get to meet Essi too.”

Shani reaches out to grab Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier waits until the assassin is out of sight before he has to lean against the railing for support, legs suddenly boneless underneath him.

“What the fuck was that?” Shani’s voice is breathless with fear. “ _Who_ the fuck was that?"

Jaksier scrubs his hands over his face, his breaths coming out in short, sharp gasps. “That was a big fucking problem.”

***

“Look, Ciri, you might have superpowers, but you still need to floss your teeth regularly,” Geralt says as they climb the stairs of their apartment building, both of their arms laden with bags of groceries.

Ciri groans. “I already do!”

“According to the dentist, you don’t.” Geralt never thought he would get to the point in his life where he has to lecture a teenager on proper dental hygiene. “Can’t fight crime with your teeth falling out.”

“What do teeth have to do with anything?”

“Hm. Can’t eat Pop Tarts if you don’t have teeth.”

“Huh.” Ciri looks thoughtful at that and Geralt grins as he unlocks the door to their apartment and pushes his way inside.

Roach runs to greet them, doing the wiggle that means no one has taken her out for a walk yet. Jaskier normally handles afternoon walks. “Jaskier, do you need me to take Roach out?” Geralt calls.

“He’s not home yet.”

Geralt looks up to see Renfri sitting on the couch while some cheesy action movie plays on TV.

“I think he was meeting Shani after work,” she adds.

“He said he would be home by four.” Geralt puts down the groceries and checks his phone. There aren’t any missed calls or text messages from Jaskier. His heart begins to pound. “Fuck.”

“He could have gotten held up.” Renfri stands up, frowning.

“He would have called if he was going to be late.” With Geralt’s vigilantism and Jaskier’s history of finding trouble wherever he goes, they make sure to check in with each other frequently throughout the day. His last text from Jaskier was a couple of hours before, when Jaskier told him that he was on his way to meet Shani.

“You don’t think something happened to him, do you?” Ciri asks, bending down to hug Roach to her chest.

“I don’t know.” Geralt tries to keep his voice calm, even as he can feel the panic creeping through him.

He calls Jaskier. The phone rings and rings until he reaches Jaskier’s voicemail, with Jaskier’s perky voice telling him to leave a message. Cursing, Geralt hangs up. If something happened to Jaskier, if Cahir got to him…

“We should go find him.” Ciri’s voice wavers, reminding Geralt of how fucking young she is. She’s already lost enough parental figures; Geralt can’t bear for Jaskier to be added to that list.

Geralt nods. “I’m going to call Yennefer. She can track him.”

His finger is hovering over the call button when the door swings open. Geralt turns to see Jaskier standing in the doorway, Shani behind him. For an instant, Geralt is overwhelmed with relief, until he sees the look on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“What happened?” Geralt asks.

Instead of answering, Jaskier walks into Geralt’s arms. Geralt wraps him up in an embrace, crushing his boyfriend to him. He can feel Jaskier’s breath coming out in sharp bursts against his shoulder. When Geralt cups the back of Jaskier’s neck in his hands, his boyfriend’s pulse races under his palms. Geralt holds him for a long moment, looking between Shani, Ciri, and Renfri. Shani looks as shaken as Jaskier, while Ciri and Renfri are tensed to charge into battle.

“What happened?” he asks again. “I tried calling you.”

“Cahir,” Jaskier whispers. “He took our phones. We’re going to need to deactivate mine, Geralt, just in case—”

“I’m more worried about you than the phone.” Geralt closes his eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath, and looks to Shani. “Are you both okay?”

Shani nods. “He had a gun, but he didn’t hurt us. He just wanted to talk.”

Jaskier laughs humorlessly. “He sure did.”

“What did he say?” Ciri demands.

“He wants the Witcher to leave Novigrad,” Shani says. “Or he says he’s going to destroy your life and take everything you love.”

“Him and the Emperor,” Jaskier adds. “Who he didn’t outright confirm exists, but he sure didn’t deny it either.”

“Imagine that.” Renfri shoots Geralt a triumphant look.

Everything Geralt loves. Jaskier, Ciri, Yennefer, Vesemir. Probably Mousesack, Essi, and Shani for good measure. He holds out an arm to Ciri and she lets him pull her into a hug, tucking her face against Geralt’s shoulder.

“He brought us to the Pontar River Bridge, where you stabbed him,” Jaskier says hollowly. “He showed us the place. He asked me how long I thought I’d survive if he shot me and shoved me into the river. I thought—”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to. Geralt tries not to picture Jaskier floating in the Pontar River, cold and alone in his last moments.

“What are we going to do?” Ciri whispers. “Kill him, right? We have to kill him.”

“I can try.” But if Cahir survived being stabbed and shoved off a bridge, Geralt doesn’t know if he _can_ kill him.

“He says you have twenty-four hours to pack your things and leave Novigrad forever,” Jaskier says.

“That’s not happening.” This is Geralt’s home. This is his family. Like fuck will he leave it all behind.

“It looks like the Emperor’s trying to spread his domain north,” Renfri says grimly. “He doesn’t want you in the way. I suppose we’re lucky that he didn’t just kill you.”

“Hm.” Geralt presses his forehead to Jaskier’s and tries to think.

“So what now?” Shani asks. Geralt can hear the barely suppressed panic in her voice. “Cahir knew who I was. He knew about Essi too.”

“We’ll keep you safe,” Geralt tells her.

“How? Because from what I can tell, you barely were able to keep Jaskier safe last time.”

Geralt doesn’t think the words are meant to hurt, but they still make him wince. “I can ask Yennefer to put wards up around your apartment.”

“Wards didn’t keep him out of here,” Jaskier says softly.

Fuck, Geralt is only one person. He can’t keep Ciri and Jaskier safe here, Yennefer safe at her shop, and Essi and Shani safe in their apartment miles away. He turns to look at Renfri.

Renfri sighs. “I know that look.”

***

It’s been hours since the encounter with Cahir in Pontar River Park and Shani’s legs still feel wobbly under her as she rides the elevator up to her apartment. “So, have you ever been a bodyguard before?”

“No,” Renfri says. “My area of expertise is more disposing of bodies than guarding them.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you and your girlfriend safe. You’re sure she won’t recognize me?”

“Essi isn’t great with faces. She once walked right by her own sister in a grocery store without noticing.” But Essi is still observant, and that’s the part that worries Shani. “Fuck, what am I going to tell her?”

“The truth?”

Shani says nothing.

“Oh, you’re taking a page out of Geralt’s relationship handbook,” Renfri says. “In that case, lie to her, let the guilt eat you alive, and then blow up your own relationship.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Renfri shrugs. “Though, for what it’s worth, I’m probably not the person to ask for relationship advice.”

“Oh, good, because I wasn’t.”

The elevator opens on their floor and they step out into the empty hallway. “I’ve never really done the whole relationship thing,” Renfri says.

“No time for romance when you’re leaving a swath of bodies across the Continent?”

“Well, there’s that. And I’ve never really had the desire either. Relationships are complicated.”

Things with Essi have never been complicated, though Shani worries that’s about to change.

“Friendships too, for that matter,” Renfri continues. “Jaskier’s the first friend I’ve had since I left the lab.”

That’s mildly heartbreaking, but Shani isn’t sure if the other woman wants words of comfort.

Renfri must see the look on her face, because she smiles. “No time for friendship when you’re leaving a swath of bodies across the Continent either. Then they become loose ends, not friends.”

“You’re not very good at being comforting, you know.”

“Oh, good, because I wasn’t trying to be.”

Shani grins and Renfri smiles back as Shani pushes open the door of her apartment. They find Essi in the kitchen, boiling a pot of pasta. “Oh, good, you’re home!” Essi says cheerfully, not turning around. “I was starting to worry. I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail.”

“Sorry, I lost my phone. Think I dropped it on the bus today.” The lie tastes bitter on Shani’s tongue and she has to remind herself that this is for the best way to keep both Essi and Jaskier safe.

“Did you try tracking it?”

“No luck. It must have died.”

“Fuck, well, I think I still have one of my old ones sitting around if you want to—” Essi turns and catches sight of Renfri standing behind Shani. Her brow knits together in confusion. “Oh, hello.”

“Hi!” Renfri says in a perky voice that Shani didn’t know she was capable of. When she turns, she sees that the other woman’s entire demeanor has changed. She carries herself differently and wears a warm, open smile. “I’m Free.”

Essi blinks, but manners win out over her confusion. “Hi, Free, I’m Essi.”

“Free is Geralt’s cousin,” Shani tells her. “She came to Novigrad to visit him, but—”

“I’m allergic to dogs,” Renfri says. “Tried sleeping on their couch for a couple of nights, and I could barely breathe.”

“So I told Jaskier she could stay with us for a couple of days.” Shani can hear how overly cheerful her own voice sounds.

“I hope it’s no trouble.” Renfri tilts her head to the side and smiles sweetly. “I promise, I won’t be in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.”

“Oh, no, of course it’s no trouble!” Essi says brightly. “I’m making spaghetti for dinner and there’s more than enough for three.”

“Perfect! Thank you so much.”

While Renfri goes to put her things down, Shani crosses the room to kiss Essi. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I was going to call, but my phone—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Essi says. “She seems sweet. When did you see Jaskier?”

“This afternoon. He wanted to meet up to clear the air between us.”

“So, is the air cleared?” Essi looks hopeful.

Shani forces a smile. “Perfectly clear.”

***

It’s past midnight and Jaskier can’t sleep. As he sits on the couch, ostensibly reading a book, his gaze keeps being drawn back to the clock on the wall.

Twenty-four hours, Cahir said nearly eight hours ago. Twenty-four hours until Cahir and the people he’s working for start trying to destroy Geralt’s life.

“You going to come to bed eventually?”

Jaskier looks up to see Geralt standing in the hallway, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“Eventually.” Jaskier shrugs. “I’m not really tired.”

He’s exhausted, actually, but he knows that as soon as he closes his eyes, he’ll be haunted by memories of Cahir, both from two years ago and from today.

“Ciri can’t sleep either,” Geralt says. “I can hear her tossing and turning.”

Jaskier glances over at Roach, who is snoring in the armchair. “Well, at least someone is getting enough sleep for the rest of us.”

Geralt comes to sit down next to him and Jaskier moves into his arms, letting himself be soothed by his boyfriend’s familiar warmth.

“I could call Vesemir,” Geralt murmurs. “You and Ciri could go stay with him for a while.”

“No.” Jaskier shakes his head. “The three of us stick together, Geralt. We’re a family.”

“I don’t know what Cahir is planning, but whatever it is, I’d feel better if you were out of the city.”

“I know you would,” Jaskier says. “But I can’t just walk away from work and we can’t pull Ciri out of school. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the safest place for both of us is with you.”

Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier, like he thinks he can keep Jaskier safe by holding him close enough. Jaskier slips his arms around his boyfriend’s waist, tucks his head against Geralt’s shoulder, and lets himself be held.

***

“And then, you’ll never believe this, he said I was too _high-maintenance._ Like, expecting him to actually remember my birthday or occasionally call me when he doesn’t want something is a lot to ask.” Marilka rolls her eyes and huffs dramatically. “Honestly, I don’t know why I wasted so much time on him.”

“It was only a few months.” Yennefer hates that she knows so many details of her assistant’s love life. Most of it is knowledge she would dearly like to unlearn.

“Yeah, but I could have spent those few months with someone who isn’t a loser.”

Yennefer can’t argue with that kind of logic, so she only takes a fortifying sip of her tea. Sometimes, she dearly misses the days where she was the only one who worked in her shop. Marilka is an excellent employee, but a chatty one.

“But it’s okay,” Marilka says. “Because I met this guy at the bodega last night and—”

Yennefer is not mentally prepared to hear about Marilka’s new beau, not after being up all night worrying for Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri. She fishes her wallet out of her purse. “It sounds like you had a busy night. Why don’t you go get both of us some breakfast? Breakfast sandwiches are the perfect cure for a broken heart.”

Fuck, that sounds like something Jaskier would say.

Marilka brightens, immediately distracted by the promise of food and coffee. “You want your usual?”

“Yes, please.” If Yennefer buys Marilka breakfast frequently to give herself a bit of peace and quiet, the younger woman hasn’t caught on yet. Or maybe she has, and Yennefer is only encouraging her to keep chattering away.

As Marilka breezes out of the shop, Yennefer sighs and leans against the counter. The coffee shop where Marilka always goes is a seven minute walk away. Depending how long the line is, Yennefer has anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes of peace and quiet ahead of her. She sips her tea, reveling in the silence.

There’s a chime as the door opens and Yennefer sighs and straightens up to greet her first customer of the day.

“Good morning!” she calls. She’s not as naturally cheerful as Marilka, but she can at least fake it. “Welcome to—”

“Yenna!”

It takes Yennefer a moment to recognize the tall, elegant woman in front of her in the dove gray peacoat and high-heeled boots. After all, it’s been twenty years since she last saw her. “Fringilla?”

Fringilla smiles warmly. She doesn’t look all that different than she did at eighteen; magic is the best kind of skincare routine. The biggest difference is her hair, which she now keeps short instead of long and curly. It suits her, emphasizing her long neck and graceful cheekbones. Fringilla was a pretty girl who has turned into a gorgeous woman.

Yennefer realizes that she’s staring, probably looking like an idiot. She straightens up and clears her throat. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” Fringilla says.

“What brings you to Novigrad?”

“Oh, I was in the city for business and I heard you had your own shop here, so I needed to stop by and see you, of course.”

Yennefer isn’t sure what Fringilla has been up to since leaving Aretuza. Probably working for her uncle, Artorius, who is one of those mages who always seems to be getting involved in politics. “Well, here I am.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine,” Yennefer says, unsure as to why she’s suddenly lost the ability to make engaging conversation. She’s not Geralt, for fuck’s sake. “You?”

“Oh, I’m doing excellent. I’m enjoying my time in Novigrad. It’s such a nice city. Made nicer by having you here, of course.”

Yennefer opens her mouth, then closes it, having no idea how she’s supposed to respond to that. She’s suddenly very glad that Marilka isn’t here to witness her acting like a tongue-tied teenager, because then Jaskier and Ciri would almost certainly hear about it and they would mock Yennefer to the end of time.

Yennefer and Fringilla were never friends, not exactly. Their class at Aretuza was small enough that they had to spend a lot of time together, but they were more rivals than friends, always competing for the top spot in all their classes. Fringilla was from a different world than Yennefer, the daughter of wealthy parents and the niece of one of the Continent’s most influential mages. Yennefer used to delight in besting her.

She also had an enormous, and frankly embarrassing crush on the other girl, which only diminished somewhat after Geralt came into the picture.

But that was twenty years ago and Yennefer really should be past getting tongue-tied over Fringilla Vigo’s gorgeous dark eyes.

“This place suits you.” Fringilla runs her hand over a display of sleeping charms. “It’s lovely.”

Yennefer feels a little glow of pride in her chest. She’s worked hard to make this shop her own and she’s damn proud of the work she’s done. “Thank you. I tried politics, and it wasn’t for me.”

“No, it’s certainly not for everyone.” Fringilla grimaces. “I don’t blame you for wanting the quieter life.”

A quiet life would be nice, Yennefer thinks.

“And how’s Geralt? The two of you were always such a cute couple.”

Of course, the last time Fringilla saw Yennefer, she and Geralt were eighteen and head-over-heels in love with each other. “Geralt and I haven’t been a couple in a long time,” she says.

“Oh?” Yennefer doesn’t think she imagines the glint of interest in the other woman’s eye. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be.” Yennefer waves a hand. “He’s still one of my best friends and his boyfriend is like a brother to me. How long are you in Novigrad for?”

“I’m not sure. As long as the assignment takes, but I’m hoping it will wrap up in the next few days and then I’ll be heading home to the City of the Golden Towers.”

Yennefer didn’t know that Fringilla lives in Nilfgaard, but she didn’t realize a lot of things about the other woman. “Well, while you’re here, I hope you enjoy yourself.”

“I am so far.” Fringilla’s phone chimes and she checks it, sighing. “And work beckons. I have a business dinner tonight that will probably run late, but what are you doing tomorrow night, Yenna? I would love to grab some drinks. Catch up.”

Yennefer hesitates. There’s a good chance that shit is going to hit the fan tonight when Geralt doesn’t leave Novigrad by Cahir’s deadline. He’s going to need her around in case things go terribly wrong.

Fringilla’s smile wavers. “If not—”

“There’s a chance I might need to help a friend out,” Yennefer says. “But if not, I would love to meet you for drinks. Here, let me give you my number.”

They exchange information and Fringilla smiles at her hopefully. “There’s a lovely little wine bar across the street from my hotel. It seems like the kind of place you would enjoy. If your friend doesn’t need you, perhaps we could meet tomorrow night at eight?”

“I can let you know for sure tomorrow,” Yennefer says. “I hope I can be there.”

“I hope so too.” Fringilla turns towards the door. “It was so good to see you again, Yenna. I’m glad I worked up the nerve to stop by.”

Yennefer can feel her face heating. “So am I.”

***

The mood in their apartment is subdued that evening as Geralt, Jaskier, Ciri, and Yennefer gather around the kitchen table. Cahir’s twenty-four hour deadline for Geralt to leave Novigrad came and went hours ago and they’re all braced for the inevitable backlash.

Jaskier’s new cell phone chimes and everyone tenses, but when he checks it, he shakes his head. “It’s Renfri. Everything’s still clear at Shani and Essi’s place.”

Geralt sighs and tries to force his jaw to unclench. He’s in his gear, swords close at hand, just in case he needs to spring into action at a moment’s notice. He wishes that he had pushed Ciri and Jaskier harder to evacuate to Kaer Morhen Farms. He wishes that the two of them and Yennefer were nowhere near what’s about to happen.

“What do you think he’s going to do?” Ciri fiddles with her own knife, turning it over in her hands.

“It’s hard to say,” Geralt says. “He could show up here to attack us. Or he could try psychological warfare, which he seems to be a fan of.”

Jaskier grimaces and rubs the back of his head.

Footsteps sound in the hallway outside and all four of them go tense, but it’s just their next-door neighbors, talking loudly among themselves as they unlock their door. Geralt fists his hands on top of the table and takes a deep breath. The half-dose of potion he took makes him hyper-aware of the others’ heartbeats. All three are elevated, especially Jaskier’s. Geralt presses his thigh against Jaskier’s under the table, trying to offer whatever comfort he can. He’s rewarded with a small smile.

“So what now?” Ciri asks. “What do we do?”

“We wait.” The words hurt, but Geralt refuses to go out on patrol and leave his family alone. He wants to hunt for Cahir, but that could be what the other man wants, to lure Geralt out so he can strike. “And we see what happens.”

***

Cahir stands on the rooftop of the house in Gildorf, listening to the sounds within. The three young men who broke into the house while the owners are south for the winter aren’t doing much to keep themselves quiet. They’re amateurs, unused to this line of work. And unfortunately for them, they won’t get a chance to get used to a life of crime.

The first young man exits the house through the side door, laden down with an enormous flat-screen TV. The TV blocks his view, makes him clumsy. He doesn’t have time to turn around when Cahir drops from the rooftop, unsheathes one of the twin swords strapped to his back, and runs him through. The young man lets out a choked cry and falls. The TV smashes on the cobblestone patio.

“Eric, what the—” One of the man’s companions comes running out of the house. His eyes widen when he sees Cahir and he opens his mouth to shout.

Cahir’s sword separates his head from his body.

From inside, he can hear the third thief’s ragged breathing. Striding inside, he finds the young man crouched behind the kitchen counter. The kid is holding a knife, but when he sees Cahir’s sword, he freezes.

“Wait, no—”

Cahir seizes a handful of his hair, jerks his head back, and slashes his throat.

He takes his time walking out of the house, stepping over the bodies. He pauses, taking a deep breath of cold night air, and turns back to face the house. The red light of a security camera over the door blinks at him. Cahir stands there for a moment, ostensibly studying his handiwork as he gives the camera a good view of his black armor, the bloodied sword in his hand with its twin strapped to his back, and the wolf’s head medallion around his neck.

***


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The hooded figure reappears in view, stepping over the corpses. Geralt can’t make out much, just that they’re tall and broad-shouldered, until they step into the glow of a streetlight and turn around. They have their head down so their face isn’t visible, but Geralt can clearly see the exact replica of his Witcher armor they’re wearing, down to the twin swords strapped to their back and the wolf’s head medallion around their neck.  
>  “Fuck,” Geralt says.  
> Mousesack shifts next to him on the bench. “I have to ask, Geralt, where were you last night at 2 AM?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continuously delightful comments.
> 
> Thank you to dls for betaing!

The video on Detective Mousesack’s phone shows grainy security footage of what looks like a patio. Geralt watches, surrounded by the hustle of Pontar River Park, as a figure in jeans and a hoodie makes their way across the patio, wobbling precariously as they try to carry a flat-screen TV that’s nearly wider than they are tall.

“That’s Eric Gorski, eighteen years old,” Mousesack tells him.

Geralt is about to ask why Mousesack asked to meet him about Eric Gorski’s theft of a TV, when a hooded figure drops down behind the young man. Before Eric can turn around, the newcomer has run the young man through with a sword. The TV smashes on the patio as Eric falls. A second young man comes running out of the house. The hooded figure decapitates him with a flick of his sword, moving too fast for Geralt to get a good look at them.

“And that was Eric’s best friend, Trevor Zajac, also eighteen,” Mousesack says grimly as the hooded figure vanishes from view. “Inside the house was Eric’s seventeen year old brother, Simon, who was found with a slashed throat. All three boys had a history of petty theft and shoplifting. It appears that they were interrupted burglarizing a house in Gildorf last night just past 2 AM.”

Geralt has seen plenty of senseless violence in his time, but the sight of two boys hardly older than Ciri slaughtered for stealing a TV turns his stomach. “Where were the homeowners?”

“In Beauclaire for the winter. They weren’t responsible for this. Just watch.”

The hooded figure reappears in view, stepping over the corpses. Geralt can’t make out much, just that they’re tall and broad-shouldered, until they step into the glow of a streetlight and turn around. They have their head down so their face isn’t visible, but Geralt can clearly see the exact replica of his Witcher armor they’re wearing, down to the twin swords strapped to their back and the wolf’s head medallion around their neck.

“Fuck,” Geralt says.

Mousesack shifts next to him on the bench. “I have to ask, Geralt, where were you last night at 2 AM?”

“Home. Yennefer, Jaskier, and Ciri can all attest to that.” None of them got a wink of sleep the night before and by 2 AM, they’d all given up, choosing to sit in the living room together in silence until morning came and they had to get moving— Ciri to go to school, Yennefer to go open up her shop with Jaskier in tow, and Geralt to meet Mousesack. “This is Cahir. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would do.”

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Mousesack takes his phone back from Geralt and frowns down at the image. “It’s a good strategy. If people think the Witcher has started indiscriminately killing nonviolent criminals, it’s going to turn the public and the police department against you.”

Geralt can feel his teeth starting to ache and forces himself to unclench his jaw. Fuck, even in his Butcher days, he wouldn’t have done something like this. The fact that anyone would think otherwise shouldn’t sting as much as it does. “Is there a warrant out for the Witcher’s arrest yet?”

“Not yet,” Mousesack says. “No one’s made a decision on how to proceed. Half the NPD’s brass wants to watch the Witcher go down for this, the other half is afraid of the public backlash that would result if it got out that a vigilante the department has worked with before starts killing people. They’re keeping it quiet for now, but we can’t count on that lasting for long. Especially if there are more murders.”

“There will be. Cahir told Jaskier that he was going to make the Witcher a bad memory in this city.”

“Where are Jaskier and Ciri?” Mousesack asks.

“Jaskier’s working remotely today. He’s with Yennefer at her shop. Ciri has school. She had a presentation for her Advanced Biology class she couldn’t miss.” Letting either of them out of his sight physically pains Geralt, but he has to keep reminding himself that they’re safe. Cahir can’t get to Ciri at school, not when she’s surrounded by hundreds of other kids, and Yennefer would never let anything happen to Jaskier.

Mousesack nods. “Marie is going to stay with our oldest in Vizima. She leaves this afternoon, if you want Jaskier and Ciri to join her.”

“I do,” Geralt says. “But neither of them want to leave. For the first time in her life, Ciri cares about missing school and as for Jaskier… well, you know how he is.”

“I do.” Mousesack smiles without humor. “But whatever comes next, the fewer of us in the crossfire, the better.”

“You might want to think about going with Marie.”

“I have thought about it, but me leaving town immediately after this—” Mousesack holds up his phone. “Isn’t going to look good to my superiors.”

Geralt frowns. He knows that the detective’s career has always been on shaky ground, first due to his work with Calanthe, and then with Geralt. He doesn’t like the idea of Mousesack facing further pushback because of this.

“I’m fine, Geralt.” Mousesack seems to read Geralt’s expression. “I had a very uncomfortable conversation with the commissioner last night, where I was urged to convince the Witcher to come in for questioning.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I would do my best,” Mousesack says. “Geralt, would you like to come in for questioning?”

“I’ve managed to make it this long without ending up inside a police station. I have no intention of changing that.”

“That’s what I thought. For what it’s worth, I’ve maintained my story that I have no idea who the Witcher’s true identity is and that my only contact with him is through he burner phone he gave me.”

“Hm.” Geralt scans the park for any signs of someone watching them. Police tails tend to be obvious, and he sees no sign of one.

“It’s well-known that I’m friends with you and Jaskier,” Mousesack says. “If anyone asks, we’re meeting up to talk about your continued failure to propose to Jaskier.”

“You couldn’t come up with a better cover story than that?”

“I was always shit at undercover work.”

They exchange brief smiles.

“Just talk to Jaskier and Ciri about going with Marie, okay?” Mousesack says. “After last time Cahir came after him, I’d feel better if they were far from Novigrad.”

Geralt remembers the look on Jaskier’s face after his encounter with Cahir the other day. “So would I.”

***

Yennefer knows that Jaskier is terrified right now and that is the only thing that’s stopping her from cursing his vocal cords into silence to stop his incessant chatter. Between him and Marilka, she can feel a headache forming behind her eyes and it’s not even mid-morning.

“I thought you were _working_ from home.” Yennefer pointedly looks at Jaskier’s laptop, which he hasn’t touched all morning.

“I am.” Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. “I’m doing exactly what I would be doing if I were at work right now.”

“Your work ethic is heartening.”

Jaskier makes a face at her and turns back to Marilka. “Look, I have to say, this guy doesn’t sound like a keeper.”

“No, he isn’t.” Marilka huffs. “But for right now, he’s so much fun.”

Yennefer doesn’t know what about the man Marilka is dating is fun, since all she’s done is complain about him all morning, but she doesn’t care enough to ask. Her phone chimes and she glances at it to find a text from Fringilla. _"I hope we’re on for tonight? I’ve been looking forward to it."_

She feels herself flush. Fuck, she’s probably going to have to cancel tonight. With the threat of Cahir hanging over their heads, she can’t in good conscience leave Geralt and Jaskier to deal with it themselves. But gods only know when she’ll have another chance to see Fringilla.

“Who’s put that look on your face?” Jaskier asks and Yennefer looks up to find him and Marilka both watching her with interest.

“No.” Yennefer puts her phone down. “I’m not gossiping about my love life with the two of you, so stop looking at me like that.”

She knows she’s made a mistake as soon as Jaskier’s expression brightens. “Your love life?”

Yennefer gives him a flat look and doesn’t answer.

“Oh, come on, Yenn.” Jaskier leans his elbows on the counter and peers up at her. “Who are they?”

“Whoever they are, they have to be a step up from Istredd,” Marilka says.

Yennefer shoots her assistant a sour look. “You have no room to talk.”

“Is it that waitress at Rosemary and Thyme who was giving you eyes last week?” Jaskier asks. “Because she was cute.”

Yennefer knows they won’t shut up unless she gives them something. “An old classmate of mine is in town for a few days. We were going to meet up for drinks tonight, but I think I’ll need to cancel.”

“Why would you cancel?” Jaskier frowns at her.

“Oh, I don’t know, Jaskier,” Yennefer says flatly. “Perhaps the assassin who may try to murder Geralt or take you or Ciri hostage in the next few days. Or perhaps the other assassin currently staying with Shani and Essi. Or perhaps the shadowy criminal mastermind Cahir might be working for.”

“I think we can stay alive without you for a couple of hours, Yenn.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yennefer says. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“You look like it was a big deal,” Jaskier says. “Tell me about her.”

Yennefer looks between Jaskier and Marilka, both of whom are giving her their full attention. “Her name is Fringilla. She and I were in the same class at Aretuza.”

“Childhood friends, reuniting after all these years?” Jaskier grins. “That’s adorable.”

Only Jaskier would think to call Yennefer “adorable,” the ridiculous man. “Hardly. We were neck in neck for top of the class all throughout our time at Aretuza. She’s from an old, wealthy family. Her uncle is one of the most powerful mages in the Northern Kingdoms, and I was the little upstart without a drop of magical pedigree in my family line. We were at each other’s throats most of the time. When I pulled ahead at the end and became valedictorian, she was furious.”

“Even better,” Marilka says.

Jaskier nods enthusiastically. “She’s right. Childhood rivals to lovers is a much better story.”

“We’re still several steps away from ‘lovers.’” Yennefer rolls her eyes. “She lives in Nilfgaard. She’s only in Novigrad for work and she’ll be leaving any day now. I doubt I’ll see her again before she leaves.”

The chime over the door rings as a customer comes in and Marilka hurries over to greet the woman.

Frowning, Jaskier leans towards Yennefer and says in an undertone, “Seriously, Yenn, you should go on this date. I know you well enough to know when you’re trying to act like something isn’t bothering you. You were clearly looking forward to drinks with this woman, so you should do it.”

“Jaskier, there are more important things happening right now than me getting to go on a date.”

“Do you like her?”

“I’m not twelve. I’m a bit old for crushes.” At Jaskier’s skeptical look, Yennefer relents. “I did have a bit of a crush on her in school, even after I met Geralt. It would have been nice to get to reconnect with her, now that we’re older and not competing for top marks, but it is what it is.”

“You know that Geralt and I appreciate you dropping everything every time he gets stabbed or I get kidnapped—”

“I would hope so. You would both be dead a hundred times over if it weren’t for me.”

“And while your dedication to our continued survival is heartwarming, you shouldn’t have to sacrifice your own happiness for it,” Jaskier says. “Go out with your friend. Portal to and from the wine bar, so Geralt won’t fret about you getting kidnapped. Wear that wine colored dress, because you look smashing in it.”

“I refuse to take fashion advice from a man who wears his jeans so tight, he can barely bend over in them.”

“I can bend over just fine.” Jaskier makes a show of bending over to demonstrate. “Seriously, you deserve to go out and have some fun. Hopefully a _lot_ of fun, if you catch my drift.”

Yennefer ignores his waggling eyebrows. “If something were to happen to you, Geralt, and Ciri while I was at a wine bar, I would never forgive myself.”

“You’ll have your phone on you, right? So you can portal to us immediately if we have a problem. Geralt, Ciri, and I will hole ourselves up in our apartment, surrounded by your wards. We’ll be okay for a few hours, I promise.”

Yennefer wants to keep arguing, but it’s so tempting to just go out with Fringilla and not worry about anything Witcher-related for a couple of hours. Geralt is her best friend. She would do anything for him. But sometimes, she wishes she didn’t have to spend so much time worrying that he was going to get himself, Jaskier, or Ciri killed.

The customer comes up to the counter to purchase a sleeping charm and Jaskier falls silent as Yennefer rings the woman up. As soon as the door closes behind the woman, Marilka comes bouncing up to them.

“So, what’s the verdict?” she asks brightly.

“Yennefer’s going,” Jaskier says before Yennefer can answer.

Yennefer frowns at him. “We never decided that.”

“Great!” Marilka claps her hands together. “You should wear that wine colored dress. It’s so pretty!”

Jaskier shoots Yennefer an _“I told you so”_ smile.

Yennefer groans. “Fine, I’ll go. But you need to call me if anything goes wrong, okay? Anything.”

“Don’t we always?”

Grumbling under her breath, Yennefer texts Fringilla. _“I’ll be there. See you at 8.”_

***

After Jaskier’s lighthearted conversation with Yennefer and Marilka, he’s almost forgotten the knot of dread living in his chest, until the door of Yennefer’s shop opens and Geralt comes in, looking like someone who’s been clubbed in the face.

“What happened?” Jaskier asks. “What did Mousesack want?”

Geralt looks around to make sure there are no customers in the shop, then says, “Cahir killed three kids last night dressed as the Witcher.”

Yennefer, Jaskier, and Marilka listen to his story in horrified silence. When he’s done, Marilka says, “But people won’t seriously think the Witcher is the one who did that, right? You help people!”

“There are plenty of people in Novigrad who hate the idea of a vigilante running around, exacting justice outside of the law,” Yennefer says grimly. “And there are a lot of officers in the NPD who will be happy for the excuse to arrest the Witcher.”

Jaskier studies his boyfriend’s posture, taking in his tensed shoulders and the way his hands are curled into fists at his side. Geralt likes to pretend that he doesn’t give a shit what other people think, but he’s worked hard to make the Witcher someone people can turn to for help. And Cahir is threatening to undo all of that. “Come on, love, let’s go home.”

Geralt nods, jaw clenched.

Jaskier turns to Yennefer, hoping to lighten the mood. “And I expect a full report on what happens tonight.”

“You’re going to be disappointed then,” she says.

“You underestimate how nosy I can be.” Jaskier says his goodbyes to her and Marilka, gathers her things, and leaves the shop with Geralt. He slips his arm through his boyfriend’s as they walk, pulling him against his side. 

Geralt is quiet as they walk, deep in thought. It’s flurrying, reminding Jaskier of their walk in the snow the other night, but there’s nothing romantic about this walk. The day is gray and dreary, and their mood even drearier.

“Marie is going to go stay in Vizima until this all blows over,” Geralt says as soon as they step through the door of their apartment.

Jaskier looks up from greeting Roach. “Probably for the best. I know Mousesack has been doing this for a long time, but I still worry about them, all the way out there in the Far Banks.”

“He said that you and Ciri could go with her.”

Jaskier sighs and straightens up. “Geralt, we’ve been over this.”

“That was before today,” Geralt says. “You didn’t see that video. Cahir impersonated me perfectly.”

“Better reason to have me around, in case you need a witness to say you were at home instead of out murdering burglars.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Even besides being my boyfriend, you’re a reporter with ties to the Witcher.”

“So?”

“So if Cahir is trying to make it look like I’ve lost it and started butchering innocents, what better target than a reporter who’s written sympathetic articles about me?”

“Geralt.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “Please don’t start this again. Please don’t try to push me away.”

The silence hangs between them for a moment. Jaskier swallows back the lump in his throat. He and Geralt have worked through the issues that ended their relationship the last time, the lies and the mistrust and Geralt’s overwhelming need to protect Jaskier against any possible danger. But Geralt is still Geralt; he doesn’t seem to know how to stop carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t know how to stop trying to protect Jaskier, even when Jaskier doesn’t want to be protected.

“I don’t want to push you away, Jask,” Geralt says finally. “I just want you to be safe.”

“I’m as safe here as I am anywhere. If the Emperor is really the one Cahir is working for, then he can get to me anywhere. Kaedwen, Vizima, here.” Jaskier smiles wryly. “Anyway, Yennefer’s been teaching Ciri how to portal, remember? If we try to force her to leave Novigrad, she’ll be back here five minutes later.”

Geralt snorts. “You’re not wrong.”

Jaskier moves into Geralt’s arms, pulling his boyfriend against him. “You’re not a monster. You don’t hurt innocent people. And no matter what shit Cahir pulls, people will realize that eventually.”

Geralt is quiet for a long moment. “And if they don’t?”

Jaskier presses a kiss against his temple. “They will. They have to.”

***

Yennefer wears the wine colored dress, despite her intentions to wear anything but. Jaskier and Marilka were right; it’s one of her most flattering dresses. As soon as she steps into the wine bar where she’s meeting Fringilla, she’s glad. It’s the kind of swanky place favored by young professionals. Even on a Wednesday night, the bar is busy, with a fair number of people, many of whom are dressed like they just came from work. Smoothing down the front of her dress, Yennefer crosses the bar.

“Yennefer!” Fringilla rises to her feet with a smile. She’s dressed in a high-waisted silver-blue jumpsuit that shouldn’t look as good as it does. When she brushes a kiss over Yennefer’s cheek, Yennefer is engulfed in the scent of roses.

“I’m so glad you could make it.” Fringilla settles down at the table.

“Me too.” Yennefer sits down across from her, feeling unaccountably on edge, given that she’s a grown woman who has been on her fair share of first dates, not a blushing fourteen year old.

“How is your friend?” Fringilla asks. “The one who needed help?”

Remembering Geralt’s tense expression, Yennefer says, “He’ll survive without me for a few hours.”

“Glad to hear it. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered us a charcuterie board. I’m absolutely starving.”

“I’m never going to complain about cheese.” The server comes over and Yennefer orders a glass of wine. When she turns back to Fringilla, she says, “How are things going with work? What is it you’re in town for? Some kind of business deal?”

“Something like that,” Fringilla says. “I’m a consultant for a private firm, which is as dull as it sounds, so I won’t bore you with the details. And the project I’m working on is proving… difficult. We’ve been trying to negotiate with the other party, but they’re not budging and neither are my superiors. I’m surrounded by stubborn people on all sides.”

“Sounds like working in politics.”

“It does, doesn’t it? But there is a bright side.” Fringilla raises her wine glass. “I’ll most likely be in Novigrad for the next few weeks.”

“I hope the hotel room they’re putting you up in is at least nice.”

“Oh, it’s lovely. But enough about me, Yennefer. What have you been up to since Aretuza?”

“Well, I went to university in Aedirn after Aretuza. Worked in the prime minister’s office for a while.” She lost that job because of all the times she vanished to go help Geralt when he got into a scrape, resulting in the first time she and Geralt broke up. “And then I bounced around for a while before the previous owner of my shop retired. She was looking for someone to take over for her, and Tissaia gave her my name.”

“You always were Tissaia’s favorite,” Fringilla says, with none of the heat the words would have been infused when they were at Aretuza. “Do you two still keep in touch?”

Yennefer nods. “Just saw her last month. She’s still ruling Aretuza with an iron fist.”

“Of course. If she survived our time there, she can outlast anything.” Fringilla smirks. “Gods, we were such little shits as teenagers, weren’t we? With all the time I spent worrying about being salutatorian versus valedictorian. And twenty years later, what did it matter?”

“ _We_ were little shits?” Yennefer arches an eyebrow as the server comes with her glass of wine and their cheese plate.

Fringilla chuckles. “I’ve always been too competitive. I suppose I take after my uncle in that way.”

“You don’t say.” Yennefer smiles into her wine glass. “We were eighteen. Everyone’s allowed to care too much about things like that when they’re eighteen.”

“Well, you were always so intimidating.”

Yennefer stares at her. “ _I_ was intimidating.”

“Of course!” Fringilla laughs. “You always had this way about you, like someone who knew exactly what she wanted and knew exactly how she was going to get it. I always admired that about you. You showed up to Aretuza and it was immediately clear that you belonged there more than any of us.”

“Please,” Yennefer says. “Don’t you remember how long it took me to learn how to levitate a rock? Never mind that time Tissaia tried to teach us to catch lightning in a bottle.”

“It could have been worse. I froze a cat once.” At Yennefer’s horrified look, Fringilla adds, “It was an accident! And the cat lived.”

“How do you accidentally freeze a cat?”

“Well, it was a miserably hot day and the ice in my drink kept melting, so I was just trying to make it colder…”

They chat cheerfully about their time at Aretuza, the other classmates they’re still in contact with, and their various magical mishaps of their youth. They work on their cheese plate and they both order another glass of wine. Yennefer forgets to be on edge, because sitting here and talking with Fringilla puts her at ease. This is a person who knows nothing about the Witcher, who doesn’t need her to step in and heal a grievous injury or portal her out of trouble. It’s a lovely feeling.

Yennefer is surprised when she looks at her phone and sees that it’s well past ten o’clock, which is when she told herself she would head home. She’s forgotten to be worried for Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri, nervous about Renfri’s presence in Novigrad, on edge waiting for the rest of Cahir’s plan to reveal itself. And while it was nice to lose herself in wine and conversation for a few hours, she needs to return to the real world, where one of her best friends needs her.

“I suppose it’s time to call it a night?” Fringilla seems to read the expression on Yennefer’s face.

“I’m afraid so.” Yennefer shoots a quick text to Geralt telling him that she’s fine and pockets her phone. “I open the shop early tomorrow.”

“I have a couple of hours free tomorrow afternoon,” Fringilla says and stands to brush a kiss across Yennefer’s cheek. “Maybe I could stop by for lunch?”

Yennefer’s skin tingles where Fringilla’s lips touched her. “I would like that.”

***

“Essi’s getting suspicious of you.”

Renfri glances up at Shani, who stands over her with her hands planted on her hips. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s exactly it.” Shani gestures to the couch where Renfri has spent most of the last two days, since it’s not like she has much else to do, relegated to the role of bodyguard while Geralt waffles over what to do with Cahir. “You’re in town to visit your cousin and yet you haven’t gone to visit him. You’re just sitting on our couch and watching TV.”

“That’s because I’m here to keep you and Essi safe, and I can’t actually do that if I’m off seeing Geralt.”

“Well, she’s starting to realize that something is off about you.” Shani glances over her shoulder, towards the closed bedroom door, behind which Essi is getting ready for bed.

Renfri blinks at her. “Look, there’s only so long that I can pretend to be normal.” 

“Well, pretend for longer! How long are you going to be here?”

“I don’t know, ask Geralt how long it’s going to take for him to deal with Cahir.”

Shani’s voice dips into a whisper. “Essi’s starting to think that you’re not Geralt’s cousin, but his side piece or something.”

Renfri cackles with laughter, slapping her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. “Oh please, like that grumpy bastard is my type.”

Shani rolls her eyes. “Just try not to do anything suspicious, okay?”

“What, like save your life if Cahir shows up to kill or kidnap you?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Fine.” Renfri adopts her oh-so-perky “Free” voice. “I’ll act as normal as possible, right up until you need me to stab someone.”

The bedroom door opens and Essi emerges. “You coming to bed?” she asks Shani.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.” Shani’s voice goes up several octaves.

Renfri snorts. If Shani wants to keep secrets from her girlfriend, she’s going to have to get better at lying.

“You need anything, Free?” Essi asks.

“No, I’m fine.” Renfri shoots her a sunny smile.

Essi gives her an appraising look, her gaze a little too canny. “Going to go see Geralt tomorrow?”

“I hope so.” Because if Geralt doesn’t give Renfri something to do, she’s going to start climbing walls.

Essi nods. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight!” Renfri waves as the door closes behind Essi. Turning to Shani, she adds, “Yeah, you should talk to your girlfriend. She’s going to figure out we’re full of shit eventually.”

Shani drops her face into her hands. “Fuck, I hate this.”

Renfri pats her on the arm reassuringly. “It could be worse. It’s not like you’re the one with the secret life you’re hiding from her. You’re just lying about someone else’s secret life.”

“You’re not helping.”

“We’ve already covered this. I’m not comforting. Now, go get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Shani darts a nervous glance at the door. “Do you think you need to?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Renfri says. “It’s what I’m here for, after all.”

***

Geralt wakes up the next morning to a text from Mousesack that a young man was killed by an assailant dressed as the Witcher only minutes after mugging a couple of tourists. He stares at the text for a long moment, a lead ball of dread in his stomach. There was a witness this time, meaning it’s only a matter of time before word gets out that the Witcher is killing people indiscriminately.

“Another one?” He looks over to find Jaskier watching him with sleepy eyes.

Geralt nods. “Mugger in Silverton. There was a witness this time.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier rubs his eyes.

There’s no option to hunker down and spend the day in hiding today. Jaskier has a staff meeting at the office that he can’t miss and Geralt is interviewing a source for a story he’s been working on for months. Together, they walk Ciri to school and then Geralt takes the train with Jaskier to work. Jaskier isn’t his normal chatty self, sitting close to Geralt while he keeps a cautious eye on the people around them. When they reach the front doors of Jaskier's office building, he turns to face Geralt and takes his hands.

“Try not to spend the day worrying about me,” he says.

Geralt presses his forehead to his boyfriend’s. “Impossible.”

“I know this is hard to believe, but I can make it a day without getting into trouble.”

“I think you’ve proven again and again that that’s false.”

“And you’ll be careful?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods. “Just going to do the interview and then I’ll head straight home. I’ll come meet you when you get off work.”

“Okay, then,” Jaskier says. “I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Geralt reluctantly lets go of Jaskier’s hands and watches him hurry inside, not walking away until his boyfriend is safely through the doors.

Geralt is an hour early to the coffee shop where he’s meeting the accountant he’s interviewing about a Ponzi scheme that destroyed several hedge funds. He gets a cup of overpriced coffee and does some work on his laptop while he waits, temporarily losing himself in his work. For a few moments, he can pretend that he’s just Geralt Rivia, a normal reporter with normal problems like trying to find an interesting hook for a boring financial story and trying to figure out how to propose to his boyfriend.

The chair across from him squeaks as it’s dragged across the linoleum floor.

“Apologies for being late.” The voice has a faint Nilfgaardian accent, barely discernible over the music playing over the speakers and the chatter of voices around them.

“No prob—” Geralt looks up and breaks off. Because the man sitting down across from him isn’t the middle aged hedge fund manager he’s been emailing with for weeks. He’s about forty, with a head of dark hair just starting to go gray and a hawkish profile. Geralt hasn’t seen him in fifteen years, but he knows him like it was only yesterday.

“Duny?” he asks.

Ciri’s father, presumed dead for fifteen years now, smiles at Geralt, brown eyes nothing like his daughter’s green. “Hello, Geralt.”

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Shani, down!” Renfri shouts and tackles Essi to the ground just as a knife sails right through the space where Essi was just standing, embedding itself in the wall behind them. Essi cries out— either in pain, fear, or surprise, Renfri’s not sure— and Renfri scrambles over her, heading for the person standing in the middle of the living room._
> 
> _“Go!” she snaps over her shoulder at Essi and Shani. “Call Geralt!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the comments and kudos, everyone!
> 
> I should have mentioned this earlier, but a head's up: from here on out, this fic will have some fairly significant book (and most likely season 2) spoilers. If you would like to remain completely unspoiled, I would recommend coming back to this fic after season 2 is released.

Growing up with Vesemir, there weren’t a lot of opportunities for Geralt to make friends. He was homeschooled and the neighbors kept their kids away from Vesemir, who was known as a loner and an odd duck. He didn’t meet Yennefer until he was sixteen and before that, there were lots of lonely days with no one but his adopted father and the farm animals for company.

“It’s for the best,” Vesemir would tell him whenever Geralt would ask if he could start going to school and spending time with other kids his age. “This is a solitary life. You need to get used to it now.”

He doesn’t remember exactly how old he was when he met Pavetta. Nine or ten, perhaps. She was his age and also being trained to follow in the footsteps of the vigilante who was raising her. In contrast to her mother’s quick temper and dramatic moods, Pavetta was quiet and reserved, though quick and clever once you got to know her. For many years, she was Geralt’s only friend, the only other person in the world who understood what it was like to be raised to be the Gray Wolf’s successor.

And then she met Duny at eighteen, got pregnant and married him at nineteen, and had Ciri at twenty. Calanthe never particularly cared for Duny, because Calanthe was never going to like anyone who got her nineteen year old daughter pregnant, and also because she was at heart a bit of a snob. Duny, who had no family and had spent a good portion of his life bouncing from group home to group home, stuck out like a sore thumb among the wealth of the Riannon clan.

In contrast, Geralt always found the other young man charming and funny. He doted on Pavetta, rolled with whatever Calanthe threw at him, and adapted to the lifestyle of a vigilante’s husband quickly, often coming along to help on missions. Geralt came to consider him a friend over time.

And then Vesemir called Geralt fifteen years ago and told him that Pavetta and Duny had been on a boat off the Skelligan coast, trying to free the victims of a human trafficking ring, when something had gone wrong. There had been an explosion, and Duny, Pavetta, and most of the people they had been trying to save had perished. As soon as Geralt got off the phone with Vesemir, he sat down on the floor of the shithole motel where he was living in Ellander and cried for the first time in years.

He mourned for Pavetta, his first and one of his closest friends, who had been kind, even-tempered, and clever, and would have made a good Lioness of Cintra someday. He mourned for Duny, who had adored Pavetta above all else. He mourned for Calanthe and Eist, parents who found themselves without a daughter, and for two year old Ciri, a child who found herself without parents.

But now Duny is sitting in front of Geralt, with gray at his temples and lines around his eyes that he didn’t have when he was the twenty-five year old Geralt last met. Geralt has too many questions, all of which are vying for dominance in his mind. What comes out is, “Pavetta?”

“Dead, I’m afraid,” Duny says, his wry smile and cool tone miles away from the young man Geralt knew. “She didn’t survive the explosion.”

“But you did.”

“Clearly.”

“And where have you been for the past fifteen years?” Part of Geralt wants to think there’s a reasonable explanation for this, that Duny had to fake his own death for his or Ciri’s safety.

“Oh, all over the place. Mostly in Nilfgaard.”

Well, that explains the accent, which Duny didn’t have when Geralt knew him. “Why, Duny? We thought you were dead. Calanthe and Eist raised Ciri without you.”

“I don’t go by Duny anymore,” Duny says. “Haven’t in years. I outgrew the name. You can call me Emhyr, if you don’t mind, Geralt.”

“I’ll call you whatever you want if you want to tell me why the fuck you’ve let your own daughter think you dead for fifteen years.” Shock is giving way to anger, which is preferable. Geralt can deal with anger.

“She seemed happy and well-cared for with Calanthe and Eist, and later with you and Jaskier, so I never saw a need to make an appearance,” Duny— no, Emhyr— says, still with that infuriating calm. “I’ve been watching from afar and I’m pleased to see that she’s turned into such a bright young woman.”

“She takes after her mother and grandmother.”

“I can see that.”

“Why are you here?” Geralt demands, his voice coming out harsh enough that the people a few tables away glance over at him in alarm. Lowering his voice, he adds, “You’ve been playing dead for fifteen years, why come out of hiding now?”

“I’m not going to try and take Ciri from you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Geralt growls. Emhyr may be her father by blood, but Geralt has been her father in all the ways that matter for the past two years and he has no intention of giving that up.

“I owe you my thanks, for raising her for the past two years,” Emhyr says. “She’s clearly thrived with you. Which is why I gave you a chance when I sent Cahir to give you a warning, rather than killing you outright.”

Geralt goes cold. He’s very aware of the knife holstered in his boot, as well as all the people around. If Emhyr is here to cause him harm, they’re all potentially in the crossfire. “You’re the Emperor.”

Emhyr nods. “Some have called me that.”

“The people who don’t think you’re a myth.” Geralt glances towards the door. “I’m guessing my source won’t be turning up today?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s indisposed. That particular story of yours threatened to make my life more difficult than it has to be, so I had to interfere.”

“Is that what this is all about, then? A Ponzi scheme? Seems a bit low-stakes for someone who allegedly runs the Nilfgaardian underworld.”

“No, that was just a small side-project of mine. A way to pay the bills.” Emhyr lifts one shoulder in a “what can you do” shrug. “You have to understand that for someone like me, having vigilantes like the Witcher and the Lioness of Cintra running around is… inconvenient.”

“Hence the killing spree you sent Cahir on.” Geralt takes a sip of his coffee. It’s gone cold.

Emhyr nods. “That was an unfortunate necessity.”

“Calanthe and Eist raising Ciri for fifteen years wasn’t enough to spare them?”

“Calanthe never liked me much. I didn’t see any other choice. I didn’t want to kill her and Eist, or you for that matter. I didn't even know that my old friend Geralt Rivia, the Butcher, was now the Witcher until Calanthe told Cahir. It was a difficult decision to send him after you, but I’m a businessman at heart. I do what I have to do to succeed.”

Geralt sees Calanthe and Eist’s burning house. He sees Jaskier kneeling on the closet floor, shaking and terrified. His hands ball into fists on the table. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. I’m not in the mood for bullshit today, Emhyr, so get to the point.”

Emhyr runs his finger through some sugar spilled on the table, making a soft tsking noise. “Fine, I’ll be blunt. I want to expand my business northward, Geralt, and if you want any kind of power in the Northern Kingdoms, you need to have power in Novigrad. I simply can’t afford someone like you interfering in my business dealings, either as a vigilante or a reporter. I gave you twenty-four hours to leave the city and you refused. Out of consideration for Ciri, I didn’t kill you outright.”

“No, you just killed three teenagers.” Geralt holds up his hand before Emhyr can speak. “I know, that was _an unfortunate necessity._ ”

“Exactly,” Emhyr says. “I’m going to give you one more chance, Geralt, because I always liked you and dear Pavetta was so fond of you. She thought of you as a brother, you know. Leave Novigrad. Hang up the Witcher mantle. Walk away and enjoy a quiet retirement with Ciri and Jaskier. Or what happened to those poor boys the other night will just be the start. I have contacts everywhere. I can and will destroy every scrap of faith that people have in the Witcher before I destroy you. If you don’t want to leave Novigrad for yourself, think of Jaskier and Ciri.”

“I’m always thinking about them,” Geralt growls. “Which is more than I could say for you when you killed Ciri’s grandparents.”

Emhyr shakes his head. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

“If you’re asking me if I’m going to fuck off and let you expand your power north, the answer is no. You killed people I cared about. You threatened the man I love. You nearly had me killed. You won’t chase me out of my home.”

“It won’t be your home when I’m done.” Emhyr smiles coldly. “You won’t have a home.”

“Why, because you’re going to kill me? You’ve tried that before. It didn’t work.”

“You’ve been doing this long enough to know that there are worse things than death, Geralt.” Emhyr rises to his feet. “If you won’t listen to reason, I’m afraid we’re done here. Don’t follow me.”

“Let me guess, there’s someone outside to prevent me if I tried?”

“Several someones, actually. As well as the person I have planted in Jaskier’s office.”

Geralt goes perfectly still.

“Jaskier has a terrible habit of leaving his coffee unattended on his desk when he goes off to talk to his coworkers,” Emhyr says softly. “It would be terribly easy for someone to slip something unfortunate into his drink. You should really talk to him about that.”

“Don’t touch him.” Geralt’s lips have gone numb.

“Not today, so long as you don’t follow me.” Emhyr looks down at him, still wearing that coldly triumphant smile. “It was good to see you again, Geralt, though I’m afraid next time we see each other, things won’t be so civil.”

Emhyr turns and strides out of the coffee shop without another word. And Geralt has no choice to watch helplessly as he leaves.

***

The mood in Yennefer’s shop is grim as Jaskier, Geralt, Ciri, Yennefer, and Detective Mousesack gather around the counter. Even though the shop is supposed to stay open for another hour, the _Closed_ sign is already flipped and the curtains are drawn over the windows.

“This isn’t possible,” Ciri says when Geralt finishes telling them about his encounter with the Emperor earlier. Geralt told her what happened as soon as he picked her up from school, but she’s still in denial. At the anguish on her face, Jaskier has to resist the urge to reach out and pull her into a hug. Ciri doesn’t seem like she’d welcome the attempt at comfort right now. “It has to be a trick, or an imposter or _something._ ”

“I don’t think someone would put that much effort into pretending to be a man who died fifteen years ago, Ciri.” Geralt’s voice is gentle. “It was your father.”

“But why?” Ciri’s eyes are overly bright. “Why would he pretend to be dead? Why wouldn’t he tell me he was still alive? Why would he kill my grandparents and all those other people?”

“Power,” Yennefer says. “If he wants to expand his enterprises northward, he couldn’t afford to let your grandmother live.”

Ciri shakes her head, suddenly looking impossibly young. “But we were family.”

Jaskier has nothing to add. He’s still trying to wrap his head around someone being callous enough to slaughter his daughter’s grandparents, to willingly rip apart her family and uproot her entire life. Jaskier knows that he, Geralt, and Yennefer would all do anything to avoid hurting Ciri. The fact that her own father wouldn’t show the same consideration is horrific.

Mousesack’s expression is grim. “There were too many unanswered questions about the explosion that killed Pavetta and Duny. I know Calanthe was never happy with the official ruling that it was a freak accident.”

Jaskier reaches out to take Geralt’s hand. “You don’t think…” He trails off.

There’s a moment of terrible silence, broken by Yennefer. “A couple of hours ago, I would have said that Duny never would have hurt Pavetta. But the Duny we know never would have done any of this.”

“Don’t think Duny ever existed, not really,” Geralt says darkly. “I think he was just a cover identity for Emhyr.”

“And who is Emhyr?” Yennefer looks to Mousesack.

“I’m looking into it,” the detective says. “But without a last name or any other information, it’s going to take some time. I think we can assume that the information Duny gave us about his birthday and place of birth was all false.”

“Then what do we do in the meantime?” Ciri leaps to her feet and starts to pace. “We can’t just sit here while he and Cahir are out there. We can’t let them come after Geralt.”

“They can try,” Yennefer growls. When everyone looks at her, she doesn’t back down. “If Emhyr really killed Pavetta, then I’d be happy for a reunion. We’ll see if he manages to miraculously survive a second explosion.”

Jaskier glances at Ciri to see how she’ll react to that, but the girl is still pacing, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.

“Let’s take this one step at a time,” Mousesack says. “First, we need to figure out exactly what Emhyr wants. He says he wants to expand his enterprises northward. What does that mean?”

“The Emperor has been rumored to be involved with everything from mob wars to Ponzi schemes to the death of Nilfgaard’s former prime minister,” Geralt says. “Hard to say which of those rumors are legitimate and which ones are just rumors.”

“And don’t forget the human experimentation, if Renfri’s right,” Jaskier says without thinking.

“Renfri?” Mousesack looks at him sharply. “You mean the Shrike?”

There’s a beat of silence while everyone avoids the detective’s eyes.

“Never mind.” Mousesack holds up a hand. “If you know the whereabouts of an accused murderer, I do not need to know. I do not want to know.”

Jaskier grimances. “If it makes you feel better—”

“It won’t.”

“If said hypothetical accused murderer were in the city, she’s not here to kill anyone. Unless she has to, I guess.”

Mousesack doesn’t look reassured.

Jaskier hurries to change the subject. “If the rumors about the Emperor and the Nilfgaardian prime minister are true, it’s possible that he’s managed to install figureheads in other countries. What did he say Geralt, that power in Novigrad is the key to power in the North? That could be why he’s here and why he wants you out of the way.”

Geralt nods. “It’s a possibility.”

“I’ll see what I can do about suggesting that the mayor and the deputy mayor have increased security,” Mousesack says. “Not that my suggestions mean much to the NPD right now.”

Geralt glances towards the curtained windows, expression grim. “The best way to figure out what Emhyr is planning is to get the people who work for him to talk. That means I can’t keep hunkering down in the apartment and hiding. I need to start going out on patrols again. I need to find Cahir.”

Jaskier wants to protest, because the last thing he wants is Geralt out there, alone on the streets of Novigrad while the police think he’s a killer and an actual killer is trying to destroy him. But four people are already dead and more will follow if they don’t do something. Jaskier knows Geralt well enough to know that he can’t stand by while innocent people are in danger, no matter how much Jaskier would like to keep him safe at home.

“I’ll stay with Ciri and Jaskier while you’re out on patrols,” Yennefer says.

“Thanks, Yenn.”

“I should come,” Ciri says. “Geralt, I can help you.”

Geralt shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“If Cahir really works for my— for the Emperor, then he won’t hurt me.”

“We can’t know that for sure,” Geralt says gently. “We can’t assume anything about how far Emhyr would go.”

“Anyway, if you stay home with Yenn and me, you can help me keep her safe,” Jaskier says brightly. His cheerful tone rings false to his own ears and from the disdainful look he gets from Ciri, she doesn’t buy it either.

“If nothing else,” Yennefer says, breaking the tension. “It might be good for you to be seen out and about, helping people and not brutally killing them. If you encounter Cahir and it’s caught on camera, it will hopefully convince the NPD that these murders are the work of an imposter.”

Geralt nods, his gaze distant, like he’s lost in thought. Jaskier shifts closer to him so their hips are bumping together, but his boyfriend doesn’t react.

“And what happens if you find him?” Mousesack asks. “You barely survived last time, Geralt.”

“I stop him,” Geralt says. “One way or another.”

***

“When I said I desperately needed to get out of Essi and Shani’s apartment, this isn’t what I had in mind,” Renfri grumbles.

Geralt shoots her an annoyed look. “Sorry, were you expecting us to take you to a museum? Maybe a show?”

“Well, I am your beloved cousin visiting all the way from Nazair.” She smiles at him sweetly.

The Witcher turns his back to her, chopping vegetables with more force than necessary. “Hence why I invited you over for dinner. Speaking of, why don’t you go join the others?”

“But how can I help you in the kitchen if I’m out there?”

“You’re not doing shit.”

Renfri snorts into her bottle of beer. “Mood’s too tense in there. Not surprising, given that Essi thinks that Yennefer and you fucked around on Jaskier.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I won’t need to, as soon as you see the way Essi is looking at Yennefer. You know, she thinks you and I are fucking now.”

“But we’re telling them you’re my cousin.”

“Apparently, they just think that’s a cover story for our torrid affair.”

Geralt looks as disgusted as Renfri feels at that prospect. “Then why would I… never mind. Don’t want to know.”

Renfri snorts. “Might make a better cover story than us being cousins. We don’t even look alike.”

“No.”

“Might stop Essi from looking like she wants to murder Yennefer if she decides she’d rather kill me instead.” When Geralt only growls under his breath in response, Renfri takes pity on him and changes the subject. “Why did you think it was a good idea to have Yennefer and Essi in the same room?”

“This is the best way to get you all in one place. It’s easier to protect you all when you’re together.”

Renfri doesn’t appreciate being one of the “all” that needs to be protected. “And what, you’re going to sneak out after dinner for a _‘work emergency?’_ Go on patrol and leave Yennefer and me to watch Ciri, Jaskier, Essi, and Shani?”

“That’s the idea. Less worried about Cahir targeting you when I’m out on patrol if you’re all here together. He’d be stupid to try and take on you and Yennefer at once.”

Renfri preens a little at that. “I could come with you, you know.”

“I’d rather have you here protecting them.”

In the living room, Jaskier is talking loudly and excitedly about nothing in particular, most likely trying and failing to detract from the tension between Essi and Yennefer. “Yeah, but then no one has your back.”

“Made it this far without anyone having my back.”

“Barely, from the sound of it.” Renfri sighs. “Look, I get why you have me staying with Shani and Essi. I get why you didn’t want me at your little meeting last night, not when your detective friend was there. But you should let me help.”

“You are helping.” Geralt turns to Renfri with the tray of vegetables and dip.”You can help by bringing this out to them.”

“Please don’t expect me to act as a buffer.”

“I don’t. Jaskier’s doing that just fine.”

“Is he though?”

Geralt’s unimpressed expression doesn’t change. “Please bring this out to them.”

“I know you’re just trying to get rid of me.” Renfri snags a carrot off the tray.

“How did you guess?”

Renfri makes a rude hand gesture and goes to join the others. She finds everyone in the living room exactly how she left them. Essi and Shani are sitting on the couch, Shani looking like she wants to sink into the floor while Essi has a smile frozen on her face that doesn’t meet her eyes, which are looking at Yennefer like she’s trying to figure out how to stab her with her wine glass. Yennefer sits stiffly in the armchair, pretending to be focused on Ciri and Roach, who are sitting together on the floor. Sitting next to Essi, Jaskier is talking a mile a minute, his vodka cranberry sloshing around dangerously as he waves his hands around.

“Did I miss anything exciting?” Renfri asks brightly, putting the tray down on the coffee table and going to perch on the arm of the couch.

“Not at all.” Yennefer smiles thinly. “Jaskier was just telling us all about the lunch thief at his office.”

And this is why Renfri has never worked a desk job. Well, that and being wanted for murder in every country on the Continent except for Kerack.

The evening is as awkward as expected, with Essi doing her damndest to be pleasant for Jaskier’s sake, but doing a terrible job at hiding her contempt for Geralt and Yennefer, Shani doing an equally terrible job at hiding her discomfort, and Jaskier talking a mile a minute to try and alleviate the tension in the room. Things only get worse when Geralt abruptly leaves right after dinner, claiming that he has to go meet with a source for a story. Essi barely manages to hide her snort with a cough.

After that, convincing Essi and Shani to stay in the apartment, playing games and chatting with Jaskier, Yennefer, Ciri, and Renfri is the challenge. Jaskier accomplishes it mostly by talking over them whenever they start discussing how they really should get going soon. Finally, when Geralt returns right before midnight, indicating with a shake of his head that he didn’t encounter Cahir, Essi declares that it’s time for them to head out.

The drive home is mostly silent. Essi makes it to their street before she explodes, “I cannot believe Jaskier is going to marry him.”

“Essi,” Shani hisses.

“Sorry, Free, I know he’s your cousin—”

“It’s fine.” This is the most entertained Renfri has been all night.

“—But I cannot believe Jaskier is still with him after what he did. Watching them all act like a happy family tonight just…” Essi breaks off in a growl. “Ugh, and Yennefer will be in the wedding party. We’re going to have to deal with both of them for _months_ during the entire process.”

“As long as Jaskier’s happy,” Shani murmurs.

“Oh?” Essi shoots her girlfriend a pointed look. “What happened to wanting to stage an intervention?”

“I just… saw them interact. Jaskier seems happy. They’re raising a kid together. We should be supportive.”

“It would be a lot easier to be supportive if I wasn’t convinced that this is all going to go to hell. Fuck, he’s going to break Jaskier’s heart again. And it’s worse because there’s a kid involved now.”

Renfri shifts in her seat, no longer entertained. Essi sounds anguished at the thought of Jaskier suffering more heartbreak. Shani says nothing and the car falls silent. No one speaks as they reach Shani and Essi’s building and take the elevator up to the seventh floor. Renfri can feel the tension between Shani and Essi. She wonders what would happen if she just told Essi the truth, and then wonders why she cares so much. She barely knows these women; she’s not their friend or their therapist. Once this situation with Cahir is over, she’ll probably never see them again.

She’s still mulling that over when Essi pushes open the door to their apartment and Renfri hears it— the sound of floorboards creaking as someone moves inside the apartment.

“Shani, down!” Renfri shouts and tackles Essi to the ground just as a knife sails right through the space where Essi was just standing, embedding itself in the wall behind them. Essi cries out— either in pain, fear, or surprise, Renfri’s not sure— and Renfri scrambles over her, heading for the person standing in the middle of the living room.

“Go!” she snaps over her shoulder at Essi and Shani. “Call Geralt!”

She doesn’t have a chance to make sure they listen to her before Cahir, who is dressed as the Witcher, draws his sword and swings at her. Renfri ducks, cursing the fact that her only weapon is the knife holstered in her boot. She would give anything to have her pike right now. She whips her knife out of her boot and aims for Cahir’s abdomen. He brings his sword down and she has to duck again, rolling out of the way of the blade.

Renfri looks up into all-black eyes and smirks. “Nice contacts, asshole.”

Cahir raises his sword to strike and Renfri seizes a lamp off the end table and hurls it at his head. It shatters against him and he stumbles back. Taking advantage of him being off-kilter, Renfri drives her foot into his groin. That should be enough to have him doubling over in pain, but Cahir only grunts.

“Oh, fucking come on,” Renfri growls and leaps to her feet, palming her knife.

He swings his sword and she dodges, aiming her knife for his side. Her blade just barely brushes him before he slams his shoulder into her. Renfri takes advantage of the closeness to drive her knife into his gut. Cahir doesn’t even blink, just looks at her with those creepy black eyes. He raises his sword again and Renfri’s hand lashes out, seizing his wrist. She squeezes as hard as she can, feeling bones crack under her grip. His eyes widen, looking more surprised than pained, and he drops his sword. 

With a whoop of triumph, Renfri drives him backwards, slamming him into the wall. She seizes the handle of her knife and twists it, pushing it deeper into his gut. Cahir doesn’t even flinch. Geralt really wasn’t joking about the superhuman pain tolerance. He slams his forehead into hers and stars explode behind her eyes. She loosens her grip on him and he punches her, then delivers a kick to her stomach, sending her flying backwards into the couch. The couch tips over, bringing Renfri with it.

“I expected more of you.” Cahir’s voice is low and silky smooth, almost pleasant. “I heard you bested the Witcher twice. I hoped you would at least be interesting before I killed you.”

She looks up to see him drawing his other sword with what she assumes is his non-dominant hand, though he shows no sign of awkwardness or hesitation. Fantastic, he’s immune to pain and he’s ambidextrous. “Sorry to say that I’m an expert at not living up to expectations.”

He takes a step towards her and Renfri climbs to her feet, bracing herself for another attack.

And then the medallion around Cahir’s neck pulses with red light and he hesitates.

“Is that Dad calling to tell you that it’s way past curfew?” Renfri asks with a sneer. “Better head home, or you might be grounded.”

Cahir rips the knife out of his own gut and hurls it at her. Renfri just manages to grab a couch cushion and throw it up to block the blade. The knife embeds itself in the cushion and she throws it aside in time to see Cahir run to the window, throw it open, and leap out into the night air.

Renfri stares after him. “What the fuck?”

***

Geralt and Yennefer find Essi and Shani outside of their apartment building. Shani is trying to calm Essi, who is clearly distraught. “What the fuck do you mean, we shouldn’t call the cops? The Witcher just tried to kill us, and Free—”

Shani looks up to see Geralt and Yennefer step out of the portal. “Thank fuck.”

Essi turns. When she sees Geralt, she goes bone white, throwing out an arm as if to block Shani from him. Of course, she just saw a man dressed just like him break into her apartment and try to stab her.

“It’s fine,” Shani says to her in an undertone. “That’s not the man who attacked us. He wasn’t actually the Witcher.”

“How the fuck—” Essi seems to register Yennefer’s presence and her brows draw together in confusion, before realization dawns on her face. “ _You_?”

“Are either of you hurt?” There’s no time for him to explain what’s going on.

“Essi’s hand,” Shani says. “Looks like a sprain. It happened when Renfri tackled her.”

“I can take care of that.” Yennefer goes to inspect Essi’s hand. The other woman just stares at her in wide-eyed bafflement. 

“And Renfri?” Geralt asks.

“Still upstairs, with Cahir.” Shani shudders. “He was waiting for us when we got home. If Renfri hadn’t been there—”

“But she was.” Turning to Yennefer, Geralt adds, “Get them out of here.”

Before Yennefer can reply, there’s a shout of alarm from nearby. Geralt rounds the side of the building in time to see a hooded figure leaping from one of the seventh-story windows while a horrified couple watches from the sidewalk, mouth agape. It’s Cahir, Geralt realizes. For a moment, Cahir plummets towards the ground, before his descent abruptly slows. He lands in a crouch on the ground, straightens up, and runs away into the darkness, right past the still-gawking couple.

“Well, I’d say he has a mage on his side,” Yennefer says from behind Geralt.

Geralt looks up at the open window. “Fuck, Renfri—”

Another figure appears slips out the window, scaling the wall. Yennefer makes a disbelieving noise as Renfri climbs down the wall, using bricks as footholds. Geralt expects the Shrike to fall at any moment, but she moves with graceful assurance. He watches one half of the couple withdraw a cell phone from his pocket, eyes fastened on Renfri.

“Yenn,” Geralt says.

“On it.” Yennefer raises her hand and the couple both turn and walk away, looking vaguely confused, like they just entered a room and forgot why they were there in the first place.

Renfri leaps to the ground and turns to face Geralt and Yennefer, breathing heavily. She has an ugly bruise on the center of her forehead. “You told me that fucker was resistant to pain, but you didn’t say anything about him being fucking invulnerable. I stabbed him and broke his wrist and he didn’t even flinch! He ripped the knife out of his own gut and threw it at me.”

“You alright?” Geralt asks her.

“Fine,” she growls. “Now are we going to go after him, or are we going to stand here and chat?”

Geralt glances back at Yennefer, who nods. “I’ll get Essi and Shani somewhere safe. Be careful.”

Renfri, apparently tired of waiting, turns and runs after Cahir. With a grumbled curse, Geralt takes off after her.

“What’s the plan?” Renfri calls over her shoulder as they run.

“Keep stabbing him until he can’t get up anymore.”

“I like it.”

He can tell from the rising thrum of music that they’re approaching the part of Silverton that’s overrun with bars and nightclubs catering to both U Novigrad students and young professionals. Renfri ducks down an alleyway between two bars and Geralt follows, passing by a couple canoodling next to a dumpster. Neither looks up and Renfri snorts in disgust.

“Honestly, if you’re going to fuck in an alleyway, find one that smells better,” she grumbles.

“Want to go back and give them relationship advice?”

“Think it might be too late for that.” Renfri shoots a grin over her shoulder.

Before Geralt can open his mouth to reply, there’s a sound behind him and he turns in time to see Cahir dropping from the roof, sword already drawn and swinging for Geralt. With one hand, Geralt casts a Quen shield, deflecting Cahir’s blade, while he draws his own sword with the other. The young woman who was just canoodling behind the dumpster screams.

“Run!” Renfri barks at the couple, who turn and flee without a second glance, and lunges towards Cahir.

The three of them meet in a flurry of blades. With Renfri’s mutations and Geralt’s potion-heightened abilities, they should be more than enough of a match for Cahir, but the assassin doesn’t even seem to notice the rare moments that one of them is able to land a hit on him. Geralt looks into black eyes that look far too much like his own and sees no hint of concern there. Cahir smells of blood and has an injured wrist, but doesn’t seem to be putting any real effort into the fight, nor does he seem to be tiring

“Mage!” Renfri yells, shoving Geralt aside.

Geralt’s medallion vibrates in warning as chaos crackles in the air. He throws up Quen as a precaution, but Renfri absorbs most of the spell, not even flinching. He turns to see a slight, hooded figure standing behind him. A mage. As the mage raises a hand again, attention turned towards Geralt, Renfri leaps forward and hurls a knife. The blade sinks into the mage’s chest and they crumple with a cry of pain, hood falling back to reveal a head of curly red hair and a freckled face. Brown eyes stare blankly up at Geralt. The girl couldn’t have been older than twenty; Geralt wonders how the hell she ended up working for Emhyr.

The sound of sirens fills the air and Cahir turns, fleeing down the alleyway.

“Come on.” Geralt bends to retrieve Renfri’s knife from the mage’s body. “We need to get out of here, before the cops—”

There’s a flash and Renfri and Geralt look around in time to see a group of partygoers standing at the end of the alleyway. Several of them have their phones pointed at Geralt and Renfri. Geralt knows what those pictures are going to look like: the Witcher in the company of a notorious murderer, standing over the corpse of a young woman, bloody knife in hand.

Motherfucker.

“Come on.” Renfri seizes him by the arm. “We need to go.”

Geralt could maybe Axii one or two of them, convince them to delete their photos and forget they ever saw anything. But there are a half dozen of them. Some of them are backing away from him. All of them look either shocked or afraid. He can smell the bitter scent of their fear and it makes his heart plunge somewhere into the vicinity of his stomach.

“We need to go!” Renfri says again, yanking on his arm, and Geralt snaps back to himself. Together, they run, a half dozen cell phone cameras pointed at their backs as they flee.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to take a one week hiatus from this fic in order to work on some other projects. Chapter 6 will be posted on March 2nd. Thank you in advance for your patience!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier isn’t sure what he was expecting from Geralt’s foster father and mentor. He’s always pictured him as just an older version of Geralt, white-haired and yellow-eyed and built like a wall of solid muscle. But the man who steps inside is a few inches shorter than Geralt, with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He isn’t as physically imposing as Jaskier expected; he’s lean and rangy, but far from Geralt’s level of athleticism. But when his yellow eyes sweep the room, taking in every detail of the assembled group, Jaskier has no doubt that this man is just as dangerous as Geralt. Maybe even more so._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience during our hiatus! We're back to regular Tuesday updates after this.
> 
> Thanks to KHansen for betaing!

It’s been just over an hour since Shani called Jaskier to tell him that Cahir was in her and Essi’s apartment. Just over an hour since Yennefer portaled away with Geralt and returned with Essi and Shani. It’s been one of the longest hours of Jaskier’s life as he sits in his living room with Yennefer, Essi, Shani, and Ciri. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounds thunderous, making it difficult to focus on Essi, even as he explains everything about Geralt, Renfri, Cahir, and the Emperor. 

“Do you have any questions?” he asks Essi when he’s done.

Essi is pale, wrapped up in Jaskier’s oversized Oxenfurt University sweatshirt. Even though her wrist is long healed, she’s still holding onto it. But when her eyes meet Jaskier’s, they’re steely with rage. “A few,” she says in a clipped voice. “Like, for example, _what the fuck, Jaskier_?”

It’s pretty much exactly what Jaskier was expecting from her, but he still winces. “Ess—”

“You’ve been lying to me for over a year. You got _Shani_ to lie to me—”

Sitting next to Essi on the couch, Shani flinches.

“You let a serial killer sleep on our couch and then an assassin broke into our apartment—”

“And Renfri saved you,” Jaskier says. “Which is why we asked her to sleep on your couch, because we knew something like this could happen.”

That turns out not to be the right thing to say, because Essi swells in indignation. “Did you now? Well, thank you for the head’s up, Jaskier, that someone might try to kill me. It’s so comforting knowing that I’ve been walking around for a week with no idea that there was a target on my back.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

Essi lets out a disbelieving little laugh. “Jaskier, you can’t even get me a birthday present without getting overly excited and telling me what it is early. How did you manage to lie about this shit for so long?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.” Jaskier can feel his temper fraying. Essi has every right to be angry, but it’s been a long night and Geralt and Renfri aren’t back yet. They should be back by now. “This isn’t lying about what happened to your favorite sweater, Ess. People have died because of this. I told Shani and a week later, there was an assassin in your apartment. I didn’t want to put you in any more danger.”

“Then why get Shani involved in the first place?”

“Because I didn’t feel like I had a choice!”

“He didn’t,” Shani says quietly. “Advanced healing or no, Renfri had a bullet in her hip. She needed medical attention.”

“That’s what hospitals are for.”

“She couldn’t go to a hospital.” It’s the first time Ciri has spoken during this conversation; her voice is heavy with exasperation. “She’s the Shrike. They would arrest her.”

“Because she kills people!” Essi leaps to her feet. “I can’t be here anymore.”

Yennefer steps between her and the door. “You can’t leave.”

“And why the fuck not?”

Yennefer’s eyes flash with barely suppressed temper. “Because there’s someone out there who wants to kill everyone that Geralt cares about, including you. You’re safer here, no matter how you feel about Jaskier and Shani right now.”

Essi looks between Yennefer, Ciri, Shani, and Jaskier, a furious scowl on her face.

“She’s right,” Shani tells her. At Essi’s glare, she adds, “We’re involved in this whether we want to be or not.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Shani doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier opens his mouth to try to think of something to salvage this situation and reassure Essi, but he’s distracted by the fire escape window sliding open. They all turn to see Geralt and Renfri climb through the window. Neither of them appear visibly injured, but both of their expressions are haggard. It’s not the look of two people who just triumphed over an opponent. Jaskier’s heart plummets somewhere to the region of his belly button.

“What happened?” he demands at the same time Ciri asks, “Did you find him?”

“We found him,” Geralt says, but he doesn’t sound triumphant about it.

“More like, he found us, along with a mage friend of his.” Renfri shrugs off her hoodie, which has blood splattered on the front. “And tomorrow, there are going to be pictures all over the news of the Witcher standing over a dead body.”

***

The morning news is filled with everything Geralt expected:

_“The Witcher kills 5 in 4 days.”_

_”The Witcher goes rogue.”_

_“Hero turned murderer?”_

Each headline is worse than the last, filled with hysterical eyewitness accounts, tearful interviews with the families of the victims, and statements from the police department promising to bring the Witcher to justice. With the NPD’s attempts to keep the first four deaths quiet revealed, they’re trying to cover their asses, which means throwing the Witcher under the bus. It’s not in the least surprising, but still leaves a hollow pit in Geralt’s stomach.

The words blur together as Geralt scrolls until he reaches a photo of the mage Renfri killed the night before. She looks far too young in the picture, smiling in a school uniform. Magdalena Erikson, twenty years old, a graduate of Aretuza who was living with her parents in Novigrad. What she was doing working for the Emperor is beyond Geralt.

“Fuck,” Jaskier grumbles, silencing his cell phone as it begins to buzz.

“Another reporter?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier nods grimly. As a journalist who made his name writing about the Witcher, Jaskier has plenty of people who want to get his take on the accusations against the Witcher.

“You’ll need to come up with a statement eventually,” Geralt tells him gently.

“I know,” Jaskier says. “But not until after I talk to Mousesack.”

When Jaskier glances at his phone again, Geralt asks, “Essi still hasn’t called you back?”

His boyfriend shakes his head. “Not surprising. She was furious last night. Can’t really blame her either. I did lie to her.”

Geralt reaches across the table to cover Jaskier’s hand with his. “She’ll forgive you. You forgave me, after all.”

“I’m far more gentle and benevolent a soul than Essi, I’m afraid.”

Geralt snorts, then raises Jaskier’s knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry, I never wanted to get between the two of you.”

“I know,” Jaskier says softly.

“At least she and Shani will be safe with Mousesack’s family in Vizima.” It was a battle the night before to convince Essi and Shani to leave the city, especially given that it’s Shani’s last semester of med school, but they finally agreed when Geralt pointed out that you have to be alive to graduate from med school. Probably not the most tactful thing he could have said, but effective.

“I hope so.” Jaskier’s phone buzzes again. He glances at the screen, then silences it. “Excellent, now the Countess is calling me personally. That’s a call that I’m never going to pick up.”

“We need to figure out what to do next,” Geralt says.

Jaskier looks at him with big blue eyes that look far too sad and too tired. “What are our options?”

“I do what the Emperor says and leave Novigrad.”

“That’s not an option,” Jaskier says quickly.

“If it keeps you safe—” Geralt hates to even consider it, but the thought of something happening to Jaskier and Ciri is worse than the humiliation of slinking out of Novigrad with his tail between his legs.

“It’s not an option,” Jaskier says again, more firmly this time. “We don’t know what Emhyr’s planning, but whatever it is, we can’t let it happen. What are our other options?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t even know where to start. If the Emperor is half of what the rumors say, then this might be too big for me, Jask.”

“You used to be friends, right? Maybe you can appeal to his better nature.” Even as he says it, Jaskier seems to know it’s a weak idea.

“I don’t know if he has a better nature to appeal to,” Geralt says. “Duny, the man I knew, was probably an act. And I was a different person back then too. He knew me as the Butcher, not the Witcher.”

“So the healing power of friendship is out,” Jaskier says, with a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

“The problem is, I know nothing about him. Don’t know exactly what he wants. Don’t know what his weak points are. I don’t even know how to begin tracking him down. But he knows all those things about me. He has us at a disadvantage and he’s going to use that.”

“Maybe you need help then.”

“I have Renfri and Yennefer.”

“Have you thought about calling Vesemir?”

“He’s retired,” Geralt says.

“And from what you say, he threatens to come out of retirement at least once a year.”

“Yeah, but it’s all talk. He likes the quiet farm life, no matter how much he complains that it’s boring.”

“I think he would come out of retirement for this.” Jaskier taps the picture of Magdalena Erikson. “He was the Gray Wolf for a long time. And like you said, you need help. I don’t think there’s anyone more qualified to help you.”

Geralt hesitates. He hasn’t had to call Vesemir for help in years. It makes him feel like he’s eighteen years old again, out on his own for the first time and constantly finding himself in over his head.

But if there’s a better option, Geralt fails to see it.

With a sigh, he picks up his phone.

***

The atmosphere in Essi and Shani’s apartment is grim as they pack their things to leave for Vizima. The living room is a mess, with the lamp Shani’s mother gave them when they moved in together shattered, their couch capsized with one of its cushions torn open, and a knife sticking out of the wall. Mercifully, none of their neighbors called the cops the night before— something that Shani is grateful for, as much as it concerns her that no one gave a damn about the fight they overheard— so at least their apartment isn’t a crime scene.

“Sorry about the couch cushion,” Renfri says as she rolls their couch back into place. “It was either that or my face though.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Shani is too exhausted and heartsick to care about their couch right now. “Are you coming with us to Vizima?”

“And leave Geralt to deal with the Emperor by himself?” Renfri shakes her head. “He’d be lost without me. Anyway, I don’t think Geralt’s detective friend wants me staying with his wife and kid.”

Shani is surprised by how disappointed she is by that news. She’s come to like Renfri over the last few days. The other woman is confusing and often infuriating, but she’s also funny and quick-witted and obviously deeply lonely, even if she would never admit it. In another life, she thinks that the three of them could have been good friends.

Renfri’s expression softens. “Don’t worry, I don’t think Cahir and the Emperor will bother tracking you to Vizima, not when there are more effective targets close at hand. You’ll be safe.”

“And what about you?”

Renfri shrugs. “I haven’t been safe since I was three. You get used to it after a while.”

“Was that supposed to make me feel better? Because it didn’t.”

A ghost of a smile crosses the Shrike’s face. “How many times do we have to cover the fact that I’m not comforting?”

Essi comes out of the bedroom, carrying a rolling suitcase and a backpack. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “I’m all packed,” she says, looking a little to Shani’s left.

Something in Shani’s chest twists. She wants nothing more than to hold her girlfriend, for them to take comfort in each other. But Essi is barely speaking to her. She can’t even look at her; it couldn’t be clearer that doesn’t want any comfort that Shani could offer.

“I’ll walk you both to your car,” Renfri says. “Take care of each other, okay?”

“We’ll do our best,” Shani says, trying not to let her expression crumble.

Renfri nods, eyes darting between Shani and Essi. It couldn’t be clearer that she wants to get out of here before any fighting happens. “Ready to go?”

Shani has never been less ready in her life, but all she says is, “Yes, let’s go.”

***

Jaskier has never met Vesemir. Even though he and Geralt have known each other for four years now and have been dating for most of that time, Geralt has never thought it a good idea for Jaskier and Vesemir to meet. The retired vigilante is a lone wolf who believes that relationships are a weakness and that there’s no place for a family in Geralt’s life. Jaskier tries not to take that personally, since he knows Vesemir didn’t approve of Geralt’s relationship with Yennefer either. The important thing is that Geralt has a good relationship with Vesemir and the few times he’s taken Ciri to Kaedwen to visit, it’s gone well.

That doesn’t stop Jaskier from low-key panicking about the fact that he’s about to meet his boyfriend’s dad for the first time. He keeps trying to find things to do to keep himself busy as they wait for Vesemir’s arrival. Their kitchen counter has never been cleaner and their fridge never more organized. He even alphabetized the spice rack, which he knows Geralt will hate, but he needs something to do with his hands.

“You don’t need to work yourself into a fuss,” Yennefer says when she comes into the kitchen to find Jaskier straightening up the napkin holder. “It’s just Vesemir, not the king.”

“Easy for you to say. He already dislikes you, it can’t get worse.”

“And he’s going to dislike you too.” Yennefer pats him on the arm. “Luckily, he’s not here for family time, he’s here to help us take down a criminal mastermind.”

“Wow, thanks. That makes me feel loads better.”

“Him disliking you won’t be personal, Jask. That’s just how he is.”

That may be true, but Jaskier isn’t used to people not liking him. He’s always been able to win over even the most prickly misanthrope. “You hated me when we met,” he reminds her. “And I won you over.”

“I didn’t hate you, I found you annoying. And I still find you annoying, just in an endearing way.”

“Love you too, Yenn.”

“No need to be sappy,” she says. “Now come sit down. If you ruin any more of Geralt’s organizational systems, the Emperor will be the least of your problems.”

“Fine.” Jaskier puts down the napkins. “I can see that my genius is unappreciated.”

In light of yesterday’s events, Mousesack has agreed not to arrest Renfri if she manages not to go on any killing sprees while in Novigrad. Mousesack is sitting on the couch with Ciri while Renfri leans against the far wall, eyeing him suspiciously. The detective looks no happier to be in the company of the Shrike than Renfri is to be in the same room as a cop, but neither of them have said so much as a hostile word against the other, which Jaskier is willing to accept as a win. Sitting in the armchair, Geralt is keeping an eye on the both of them, a grim expression on his face.

Jaskier has barely lowered himself onto the couch between Ciri and Mousesack when there’s a knock on the door. He instantly leaps to his feet.

“I’ll get it,” Geralt says and heads for the door. Jaskier stands there stupidly, heart fluttering in his chest, as Geralt opens the door.

Jaskier isn’t sure what he was expecting from Geralt’s foster father and mentor. He’s always pictured him as just an older version of Geralt, white-haired and yellow-eyed and built like a wall of solid muscle. But the man who steps inside is a few inches shorter than Geralt, with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He isn’t as physically imposing as Jaskier expected; he’s lean and rangy, but far from Geralt’s level of athleticism. But when his yellow eyes sweep the room, taking in every detail of the assembled group, Jaskier has no doubt that this man is just as dangerous as Geralt. Maybe even more so.

“Vesemir,” Geralt says. “Thank you for coming.”

“Nearly twenty years you’ve been out on your own, and this is the first time you’ve asked for my help.” Vesemir reaches out to clasp Geralt’s shoulder. “Figured shit was hitting the fan if you needed me around.”

“Vesemir!” Ciri leaps to her feet and bounds across the room.

To Jaskier’s surprise, Vesemir’s stern features soften into a smile as he reaches out to hug her. “You’ve grown, pup. You’re going to be taller than Geralt, if you keep it up.”

Geralt snorts.

Jaskier steps forward, feeling shy for what may be the first time in his life. He’s supposed to be the outgoing one in their family, the one who actually knows how to talk to people. But he has no idea what to say.

Geralt reaches out to put a hand on Jaskier’s lower back. “This is Jaskier. Jask, this is Vesemir.”

Jaskier smiles and holds out a hand to shake, hoping he looks more confident than he feels. “A pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Vesemir just looks at him. Jaskier is actually a hair taller than the older man, so Vesemir shouldn’t be able to look down at him, but he somehow manages. Jaskier watches the other man take him in, wondering if he should have gone for something more sedate than the coral-colored shirt he’s wearing, or if it would have mattered at all. Geralt clears his throat pointedly and Vesemir takes Jaskier’s hand in a firm grip, shaking it with one short, perfunctory motion before turning away.

“Hello, Yennefer,” Vesemir says.

Yennefer inclines her head frostily. Gods, Jaskier wishes he could radiate cold indifference like she can. “You look well.”

“I look old.” Vesemir hums in a way that reminds Jaskier of Geralt, before turning to Renfri and Mousesack. “This must be the Shrike.”

Renfri gives him a wry look. “You can call me Renfri.”

Vesemir nods, looking unconcerned about Renfri’s extensive criminal history. Apparently, Jaskier’s pink shirt is more upsetting than the fact that Renfri used to kill people on a regular basis. But when Vesemir glances at Mousesack, his expression goes completely impassive.

“This is Detective Mousesack,” Geralt says when Vesemir makes no move to introduce himself.

“Hm,” is all Vesemir says.

“We’ve met,” Detective Mousesack says. “Though you were working as the Gray Wolf at the time. You were in Cintra, assisting Calanthe with a case.”

Vesemir’s gaze darts to Geralt, going almost as cold as Yennefer’s.

“Geralt didn’t tell me you were the Gray Wolf,” Mousesack says. “Though given how his early methodology as the Butcher was so similar to yours, it wasn’t hard to make that leap.”

“And this is why we don’t keep cops around,” Vesemir says in an undertone to Geralt.

Next to him, Jaskier feels Geralt go stiff. “Mousesack is a friend,” Geralt says quietly. “I trust him with the lives of everyone in this room.”

“And what about our secrets?”

“Those too.”

Sensing that this conversation could turn unpleasant, Jaskier puts on his most cheerful smile. “I hope you’re hungry, Vesemir, because we ordered enough noodles for a small army and—”

“I ate on the road.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, feeling himself deflate a little.

“But the rest of us could eat,” Yennefer says, voice growing somehow colder. “I know I’m starving.”

There’s a chorus of agreement from the others.

Ten minutes later, they’re gathered around the living room, since there’s nowhere close to enough room for all of them at the kitchen table, all but Vesemir with bowls of noodles in hand while Geralt explains the full situation to Vesemir. Jaskier hardly tastes his noodles, focused as he is on the conversation.

It’s odd to watch Geralt and Vesemir interact. They seem more like colleagues, albeit friendly ones, than a father and son. Jaskier knows that he’s no expert on healthy parent-child relationships— after all, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen his parents in the last four years— but he feels like there should be some show of affection between the two men. They haven’t seen each other since Geralt took Ciri to visit Vesemir that summer.

“Calanthe never liked Duny,” Vesemir says when Geralt is done telling Vesemir about the attack the other night. “Now I can see why.”

“She didn’t like Duny because he got Pavetta pregnant,” Geralt says.

“And because none of us had any idea who he was or where he came from, but Calanthe could never find any dirt on him. Pavetta thought he had a tragic past and that we needed to respect his privacy.” Vesemir snorts and shakes his head, adding in a tone of faint disgust, “Love.”

Jaskier glances at Ciri, who is staring into her bowl of noodles with a blank expression.

“The rumors about the Emperor started not long after Duny disappeared,” Vesemir continues. “Now the question is was his disappearance part of the plan, or did he take advantage of the circumstance? Was he already acting as the Emperor, even when he was living in Cintra?”

No one says anything.

“What do you know?” Vesemir asks Geralt.

“What I just told you.”

Vesemir cocks an eyebrow. “Not much to go on.”

“My focus has been split.”

Vesemir looks at Jaskier, who feels his face go hot. Of course Geralt’s focus has been split, because he’s been more focused on protecting Jaskier and Ciri than he’s been on investigating the Emperor.

“Son, there’s a warrant out for your arrest.” Vesemir is still looking at Jaskier, even as he talks to Geralt. “The NPD and any concerned citizen with half a mind to play the hero is going to be on the lookout for you. The Emperor had one mage working for him, so there are probably others. We can assume Cahir isn’t the only dangerous person who will be coming for you. Things are only going to get worse from here. This is not the time to have your focus split.”

Jaskier stands up. “I’m going to get more noodles. Anyone want any?”

No one answers him, so he goes into the kitchen and stands there for a long moment, breathing deeply. A wet nose is shoved into his palm and he looks down to see Roach looking up at him with hopeful eyes. He crouches to scratch her behind the ears, wincing as she licks him directly in the eye. At least someone has a use for him. In a room with two vigilantes, a former vigilante, a sorceress, and a girl with seemingly unlimited reserves of chaos, he’s never felt so useless, so much like a distraction.

So much like a liability.

***

Yennefer learned long ago that when Vesemir is around, it’s best to make herself scarce. She and the old man have never gotten along, even beyond his dislike of her relationship with Geralt. Yennefer has never quite been able to forgive him for his taskmaster treatment of Geralt growing up, for the way he picked up a terrified, abandoned little boy and turned him into a vigilante instead of giving him the loving home he deserved. That’s not the way Geralt sees it— and she also knows better at this point to bring her feelings about Vesemir up in front of him— but Yennefer can’t help but resent Vesemir for the carefree childhood that Geralt never got to have.

So she’s not _hiding_ when she spends her Monday morning in her shop, even though it’s not open on Mondays. Yennefer Vengerberg doesn’t hide. She’s strategically removing herself from the situation, because the old man has been in Novigrad for two days and she’s ready to murder the old man. Everything from the way he acts like he knows all the answers to the dismissive way he treats Jaskier sets her teeth on edge.

There’s been enough death and destruction lately. Yennefer doesn’t need to add Vesemir to the body count, no matter how dearly she wants to.

Jaskier and Geralt decided to keep Ciri home from school that day so the girl is with Yennefer at her shop, ostensibly helping with inventory, but really causing benign chaos as she practices her portals. When another shelf of delicate charms rattles dangerously when Ciri portals in front of them, Yennefer’s head snaps up.

“You’re going to need to ask Geralt to increase your allowance if you keep that up, because if you break it, you buy it,” she says, though her voice lacks heat, because Ciri is damn good at portaling, especially given how recently they started to train.

Ciri portals again, reappearing right in front of Yennefer with a cocky grin on her face. “I’m not going to break anything. I have more control than that.”

“Everyone thinks that until the first time they portal on top of another person.” Though Ciri puts most of the people Yennefer knew at Aretuza to shame.

Ciri rolls her eyes, then nods towards the door. “Looks like someone didn’t see the ‘Closed’ sign.”

Yennefer turns around, expecting to find an irritatingly persistent customer with their face pressed against the glass. Instead, she finds Fringilla standing outside the door, just starting to turn away.

Yennefer hurries across the shop and throws the door open, trying not to think about how her heart rate picks up. “Fringilla!”

Fringilla turns to her with a smile. “Oh, Yenna, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize your shop was closed today. I was just in the area and I was stopping by to say hi.”

“No, I’m glad to see you.” Yennefer is enveloped with the smell of roses when Fringilla brushes a kiss over her cheek. “Come in.”

This is the fourth time she’s seen Fringilla since the first time the other sorceress stopped by her shop last week. After their date, Fringilla has stopped by to bring Yennefer lunch and chat twice. It hasn’t proceeded past the maddening flirting and Yennefer doesn’t know where this sudden, uncharacteristic shyness is coming from.

“How are things going with work?” she asks Fringilla as she closed the door behind them, blocking out the cold.

“Ugh.” Fringilla pulls a face, shrugging off her coat and scarf. “Frustrating. Nothing has changed, one of my coworkers just left the team unexpectedly, and I’m starting to think I should just change my permanent address to my hotel room.”

“It could be worse. You could be stuck indefinitely in Gors Velen.”

“Don’t say that too loud. You may give my boss ideas.”

Yennefer giggles. Actually giggles. Gods, this crush is getting absurd.

“Hi.” It’s only at the sound of Ciri’s voice that she remembers that the girl is here. She looks around to see Ciri still standing by the counter, watching Fringilla with a curious expression.

“This is Geralt’s daughter, Ciri,” Yennefer tells Fringilla. “Ciri, this is an old friend of mine from Aretuza, Fringilla.”

“Oh, you’re Ciri!” Fringilla brightens. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Yennefer has not said a word about Fringilla to Ciri, but Jaskier the blabbermouth must have because Ciri looks delighted. “It’s nice to meet you,” the girl says sweetly.

“I was just stopping by to see if you were interested in a late lunch,” Fringilla says. “I have a few hours before I need to be in my next meeting.”

Yennefer darts a glance at Ciri. Geralt would not be pleased if Yennefer took Ciri outside the safety of her shop, and for good reason.

Fringilla misinterprets the meaning of the glance. “You’re welcome to join, of course,” she tells Ciri.

“Why don’t we order pizza here?” Yennefer suggests before Ciri can answer. “Ciri has homework she needs to be working on.”

Ciri makes a face at that, but doesn’t argue.

Twenty minutes later, the three of them are up in Yennefer’s apartment with a large cheese pizza, with Ciri not even pretending to care about her homework while she listens to Fringilla and Yennefer reminisce about Aretuza.

“And that was the only time Tissaia ever caught us sneaking out,” Fringilla says.

Yennefer sniffs. “It was entirely Sabrina’s fault. Not that she would ever admit it”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” Fringilla says. “But Tissaia threatened to turn us into eels if she caught us again.”

“She always used to say that.”

“Did she ever turn anyone into an eel?” Ciri’s eyes go wide.

Fringilla nods. “Once. That girl who made all her roommate’s teeth fall out. What was her name, Yenna? She was a nasty piece of work.”

“Oh, I don’t remember. Gretta, maybe? Or Gretchen. There was a G and a T.”

Their conversation moves on to life after Aretuza.

“Why did you move to Nilfgaard?” Ciri asks Fringilla.

Fringilla smiles. “Well, my Uncle Artorius is a very well-known mage in the Northern Kingdoms. He’s worked for almost every government north of Cintra. He has influence everywhere.”

“Then wouldn’t you want to work in the Northern Kingdoms?”

“I did that for a while, and I was miserable. I decided I needed to spread my wings, make a name for myself on my own. Don’t get me wrong, Artorius and I are close. I owe him everything. But I needed a change, so I moved to Nilfgaard and got a job in the prime minister’s office.”

“I didn’t know you worked for the prime minister,” Yennefer says.

Fringilla nods. “Prime Minister Endivrot. I worked for her for three years before she passed away of a heart attack. It was tragic, but it gave me the push I needed to finally get out of politics. I thought about coming back north, but I was recruited by a private consulting firm, so I decided to make Nilfgaard my permanent home.”

“Do you like it there?” A complicated expression crosses Ciri’s face and Yennefer wonders if she’s thinking of Emhyr.

“The winters are lovely, summers are murder on my hair. The city is beautiful and I love my apartment. The job can be stressful, but that’s true of a lot of careers.” Fringilla smiles across the table at Yennefer. “I am glad to be back in the north right now.”

Yennefer hides her smile behind her piece of pizza.

When Fringilla excuses herself to go to the bathroom, Ciri turns to Yennefer with a sly smile.

“Don’t you start.” Yennefer points a quelling finger at her.

“What?” Ciri blinks innocently. “I was just going to say that I like her. She’s nice.”

“She is.”

“And you know, Nilfgaard isn’t so far that you can’t portal easily.”

“Thank you, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Do you like her?”

“I’m not sixteen, Cirilla.”

“Do you?” Ciri leans forward, chin in hands, still wearing that shit-eating grin. She’s far too much like Jaskier sometimes.

Yennefer sighs. “Yes.”

“Why are you acting like that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not a bad thing. Life is just complicated right now.”

“It always is. If you sit around, waiting for life to stop being complicated, you’re never going to get to do anything you want to do.”

Yennefer blinks at her. “Sometimes, you’re frighteningly wise for someone who can’t legally drink yet.”

“I just want you to be happy, Yenn. Geralt and Jaskier have each other. It would be nice if you had someone too.”

Yennefer pictures sitting in Geralt’s apartment with Geralt, Jaskier, Ciri, and Fringilla. Fringilla and Geralt would probably like each other; they have similar dry senses of humor. And of course she would get along well with Jaskier, just like most people do. The other woman would fit nicely into their little family. It’s far too early to be having thoughts like that, but Yennefer can’t stop the smile curling her lips.

It’s only a fantasy, she knows. But it’s a nice one.

***

With half the city on the lookout for the Witcher, Geralt forgoes his usual uniform when he goes on patrol that night. Instead of his armor, he wears a simple black coat with the hood pulled low to reveal his white hair and potion-black eyed. A scarf wrapped around his mouth hides his chalk white lips. Hidden under his coat and tucked into his boots are enough knives to make up for his lack of swords. Like most nights, he slips through darkened alleyways and down narrow side streets, keeping an eye out for trouble.

Unlike most nights, he’s not alone.

Vesemir prowls behind him, the brim of a baseball cap pulled low to hide his own eyes. It’s the second night they’ve gone on patrol together and like the night before, there’s no sign of Cahir. Geralt wonders if now that he’s thoroughly ruined the Witcher’s reputation, Cahir is done masquerading as him. Somehow, Geralt doubts it.

“Another hour,” he tells Vesemir. “Then we should head back.”

Vesemir gives him an odd look. “Not even midnight yet. Early to stop patrolling.”

“I try not to be out too late.”

“Because of Jaskier?”

“No,” Geralt says carefully. “I can’t ask Yennefer to stay at the apartment all night, keeping an eye on things. She has a shop to run tomorrow.”

“Ciri’s a capable girl. She can protect herself, especially with the Shrike there.”

“She’s seventeen.”

“So? You were going out on patrols solo at that age.”

Geralt clenches his jaw. “Ciri isn’t ready for that yet.”

“Do you mean you’re not ready for that yet?”

Geralt doesn’t grace that with an answer. “I feel better if Yennefer is with Jaskier and Ciri when I’m out on patrol right now, even if Renfri’s there.”

“Hm. Suppose you can’t count on Jaskier to help protect them.”

“He’s decent in hand-to-hand combat,” Geralt says in a perfectly neutral tone, pretending he didn’t notice the judgement in Vesemir’s voice. “Needs to work on his confidence, but we’re getting there.”

“Come on, Geralt.”

“What?” Geralt turns to his foster father.

“I’m glad you’re happy and I’m sure he’s a nice enough boy—”

“Man. He’s twenty-seven.”

Vesemir ignores him. “Someone like that has no place in this life.”

“Someone like what?”

“Soft. Innocent. Unused to violence.”

“Jaskier’s become plenty used to violence.” A fact that Geralt loathes. “He’s not like us, but that doesn’t make us weak. It takes more bravery for someone like him to face down people like Stregobor and Cahir.”

“How many times has he nearly gotten killed now?” When Geralt doesn’t answer, Vesemir continues, “I know you care for him—”

“I don’t care for him. I love him.” Geralt meets his father’s gaze. “You’ve made your opinion on the subject clear, but you’ll need to get used to him, because I’m going to ask Jaskier to marry me. He’s going to be my husband.”

“You’re going to _marry_ him?”

“Going to ask him, at least. I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes.”

Vesemir is quiet for a long moment. “Never raised you to be selfish, Geralt.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fists into side. “How is marrying the man I love selfish?”

“Because you’re tying him to this life permanently. You’re putting him on the radar of any enemy who learns your identity, even more so than he already is. He’ll never get the opportunity to have a normal life.”

“Jaskier doesn’t want a normal life. He wants a life with me.”

“Not yet, but he’s only twenty-seven. You think he’ll still be happy with this in five, ten, fifteen years?”

“I do,” Geralt says, fighting to keep his voice even. “And if he’s not, we’ll figure that out between us. In the meantime, you should give him a chance.”

“You don’t need me to approve of your boyfriend. You’re a grown man.”

“No, but it would be nice if you’d at least make an attempt. Especially when you’re a guest in our home.”

Vesemir is quiet for a moment. “There’s nothing I can say to convince you, is there?”

“No.”

“Then let’s head home. Don’t want to keep Jaskier up too late.”

Geralt ignores the barb. They head home in silence.

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Yennefer plucks the bottle from her hand and goes to refill her own glass, just as a shiver goes through the apartment. The lights flicker and the windows seem to rattle._
> 
> _Jaskier looks up at the ceiling. “What was that?”_
> 
> _Slowly, Yennefer puts down the bottle of wine and rises to her feet, suddenly feeling stone cold sober. “Jaskier, call Geralt.”_
> 
> _“Why?” Renfri demands._
> 
> _“Because someone just took down the wards.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to KHansen for betaing!

“I’m not saying I have anything _against_ Novigrad.”

“You say with an air of judgement.” Yennefer’s lips curl into a smile.

Fringilla laughs. It’s an unseasonably pleasant day for January and the two women are walking around Hierarch Square, enjoying the afternoon. Fringilla has the afternoon off from meetings and Yennefer left Marilka in charge of the shop for a few hours. To her surprise, she’s enjoying herself too much to worry about whether it will still be standing when she returns.

“All I’m _saying_ ,” Fringilla says. “Is that in Nilfgaard, our public transportation actually arrives on time. And the city is built on a grid, so the layouts make sense. All all the streets have their own names. How many streets do you need named after King Vizimir?”

“There were four kings with that name. They each get their own street.”

“It’s amazing anyone in this city is on time.”

“We never are. That’s the secret.” Their hands bump together as they walk and Yennefer threads her fingers through Fringilla’s. As far as physical contact goes, it’s completely innocent, but it still sends a thrill through Yennefer. “Any update on how much longer you’re going to be in town?”

“I’ve given up on trying to guess.” Fringilla squeezes her fingers. “But I have been enjoying myself enough that I may have to come back to visit once my assignment is over.”

“Despite the confusing street names?”

“Despite the confusing street names.” They pause outside a bakery with a window filled with elaborately decorated cakes. Yennefer has never had much of a sweet tooth, but she can appreciate the brightly colored desserts.

“Want a cupcake?” Yennefer asks Fringilla, smiling when the other woman’s expression brightens.

Five minutes later, they leave the bakery with ornately decorated cupcakes. Yennefer’s fingers are stained blue from frosting and she’s sure her lips are as well, but she can’t find it within herself to care. Fringilla has yellow frosting on her nose, which somehow doesn’t detract at all from her elegant demeanor.

Fringilla pauses on the sidewalk and turns to face Yennefer, expression warm. “You know, I would have been bored out of my mind on this trip if we hadn’t reconnected. I’m so glad we found each other again.”

“Me too,” Yennefer says. “I wish we had stayed in touch after Aretuza. I feel like I wasted so much time seeing you as competition, when we could have been friends this whole time.”

“Well, we’re making up for it now.” Fringilla’s gaze falls to Yennefer’s lips. “That’s the important part.”

Yennefer can feel the weight of those warm brown eyes on her. “Fringilla—”

Fringilla leans forward and kisses her. She smells like roses and tastes like frosting and Yennefer can’t get enough. The kiss is searching and tentative at first, but deepens when Yennefer returns it enthusiastically. They stand there for a long moment, mouths pressed together and tongues tangling, oblivious to rush of foot traffic around them and cars zooming by, until a car beeps nearby and both women jump and pull away.

Fringilla laughs, sounding a bit breathless. “I have nowhere to be for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Neither do I,” Yennefer says.

“Would you like to come back to my hotel then?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that for a week.”

Fringilla smiles and takes Yennefer’s hand.

Though it’s maybe a twenty minute walk, the journey back to Fringilla’s hotel seems endless, their progress seemingly slowed by every crosswalk, every slow-moving group of pedestrians, and every construction zone in the city. Yennefer feels like she may explode, but Fringilla’s hand stays in hers the whole time, their fingers laced together. As soon as they step through the door of Fringilla’s room, Fringilla pulls Yennefer close and kisses her.

They have twenty years to make up for and they make good use of their afternoon, mapping out each other’s bodies with their mouths and hands. Yennefer quickly figures out what makes Fringilla tick, what will make her grab Yennefer’s hair and gasp her name, what makes her back arch off the mattress. For her part, Fringilla seems just as devoted to wringing all the pleasure she can out of Yennefer.

“You’re being a bit competitive about this,” Yennefer manages to gasp out, her body still tingling pleasantly.

Fringilla grins up at her from between Yennefer’s thighs. “Old habits die hard.”

Yennefer just laughs, the sound breaking off in a moan as Fringilla starts up her ministrations again.

They don’t leave the bed until well after dark, when Yennefer reluctantly declares that it’s time for her to leave.

“You could stay.” Fringilla sits on the edge of the bed, dressed in a hotel robe and watching Yennefer with heavy-lidded eyes. “I could order room service.”

“I wish I could, but I have plans with Ciri tonight,” Yennefer says, which isn’t entirely a lie.

“Maybe we could get an early breakfast tomorrow then?” Fringilla asks.

A smile curls Yennefer’s lips. “I’d like that.”

Fringilla comes over to give Yennefer a long, lingering kiss. Just when Yennefer thinks she might not be getting out of here anytime soon, there’s a loud knock on the door. Fringilla tenses in her arms.

“Are you expecting someone?” Yennefer murmurs.

“Probably one of my coworkers.” Fringilla smiles, but it’s strained. “Maybe if we keep quiet, they’ll go away.”

But there’s another knock, this one more insistent.

“That doesn’t sound like they intend to go away,” Yennefer says.

“Fringilla!” a male voice says. And something about that voice sounds familiar, despite the Nilfgaardian accent.

Yennefer lets go of Fringilla and starts for the door.

“Yenna, just leave it,” Fringilla says, but Yennefer ignores her.

She swings open the door to find Duny— no Emhyr, the Emperor— standing there. He looks as surprised to see her as she is to see him for a moment.

“You,” Yennefer hisses. The first thing she thinks is that he’s here to hurt Fringilla, that he and Cahir have caught on to her importance to Yennefer and plan to use the other woman against her. She starts to raise her arm, ready to reduce him to a pile of ashes.

And then she freezes, unable to move.

“I’m sorry,” Fringilla says behind her, voice terribly calm. “I can’t let you do that.”

Yennefer is too slow to school her expression into indifference or simple anger; she knows that Emhyr sees her shock and hurt. He smirks. “Good to see you again, Yenn.”

She snarls at him. “Fuck you.”

“Well, I’m afraid that was about the reception I was expecting.” He steps into the hotel room, closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing here?” Fringilla asks.

“I couldn’t get a hold of you.”

“I was busy.”

Emhyr’s gaze flicks between Fringilla in her robe, Yennefer, and the rumpled bed sheets. “I can see that.”

Yennefer’s fingers twitch with the urge to cast a curse, but Fringilla’s magic is still holding her in place.

“You gave me an assignment, I was fulfilling it.” A hint of testiness invades Fringilla’s frosty tone. “And I would have continued fulfilling it if you hadn’t decided to show up here.”

“You didn’t tell me you would be with her today. And while I admire your dedication to the cause—” He throws another pointed glance at the bed. Yennefer’s skin crawls. “You were supposed to keep me apprised of when you would be seeing Yennefer.”

“An oversight,” Fringilla says. “It won’t happen again.”

“Well, clearly not.” Emhyr turns to study Yennefer. “Unless you can wipe her memory?”

“Not thoroughly enough to be sure it would work.”

“Pity, you two were cute together.”

Under the maelstrom of rage and grief and betrayal, Yennefer finds her voice. “You work for him.”

Fringilla circles around to stand next to Emhyr, facing Yennefer. Her expression is set, but her eyes look terribly sad. “Yes.”

“The client who’s being difficult is Geralt.”

Fringilla nods. “More difficult than we anticipated.”

“And so what was your plan here? Seduce me so I would help you convince him to leave Novigrad? What, you think a half-decent fuck is enough to turn me against my best friend?”

Fringilla flinches the tiniest bit at that, but it isn’t enough. Yennefer wants to see her _hurt._ “I was supposed to keep you distracted.”

“And not doing as good a job of it as I’d hoped,” Emhyr says. “She still hadn’t convinced you to leave Jaskier and Ciri unaccompanied at night. It was only a matter of time though.”

“No, it really wasn’t.”

Or was it? Yennefer has been an idiot from the beginning, she realizes. Fringilla’s vague stories about the “consulting company” she worked for, her connection to the prime minister Emhyr had killed, her sudden appearance in Novigrad right around the time the Emperor came to town. Had Yennefer been thinking clearly, she would have seen it right away. But she hasn’t been thinking clearly since the day Fringilla stepped into her shop.

“Now what?” Yennefer asks, schooling her face back into impassivity.

“Now, there’s a good question.” Emhyr reaches towards her, like he’s going to cup her face with his hand. She snaps her teeth at him and he quickly withdraws his hand. “I’ll admit, I didn’t have any plans for you quite yet, Yenn, and this has taken me off guard. But I’m sure—”

“We’ll let her go,” Fringilla says firmly.

Emhyr and Yennefer both glance at her, surprised.

She faces down Emhyr without a moment’s hesitation. “At no point did I agree to help you capture or kill her. I was supposed to be a distraction, nothing more. So we’ll be letting her go.”

“Remember your place, Fringilla.” Emhyr’s voice is low and deadly.

“I do remember my place, as the mage you need to accomplish any of your plans, especially if you continue to let Cahir burn through your other mages.”

“Oh, is that what you’re upset about?” Emhyr scoffs. “I told you, Magdalena was a necessary sacrifice—”

“I’m not upset, Emhyr,” Fringilla says. “I’m simply not going to allow you to murder a woman I invited here. So Yennefer will be leaving here unharmed.”

“And how do you plan to make that happen?” Emhyr demands. “She’ll try to kill us both as soon as you release her.”

“I won’t _try._ ” Yennefer bares her teeth in a vicious smile.

Fringilla shoots her an exasperated look that’s so like an expression she would have worn during their school days when Yennefer was giving Tissaia a hard time in class that Yennefer’s insides twist. “Do you want to live, Yenna?” she demands. “Because I’m trying to make that happen.”

Yennefer meets those warm brown eyes. “I’m not going to beg you for my life, so do with me what you will.”

Emhyr makes a disgusted noise. “Mages and their dramatics.”

“Your mage is the only reason your insides are splattered all over the walls, so you should shut the fuck up.” Yennefer isn’t sure why she feels the need to defend Fringilla to Emhyr, but the man’s dismissiveness is starting to grate on her nerves.

Fringilla’s mouth presses into a thin line, gaze full of turmoil. She looks unbearably tired. “Goodbye, Yenna.”

Yennefer says nothing. She clenches her jaw until her teeth ache, determined not to let them see her mouth tremble.

She hears a portal appear behind her and she topples backwards through it. For a moment, she’s lost in nothingness, disoriented and frantic. And then she finds herself kneeling on the ground in front of her shop, alone.

***

Geralt has known Yennefer for over two decades now. They’ve seen each other at their lowest points— mourning dead friends, during breakups, grievously injured after battles. He’s never been the best at reading people, but she’s one of the few exceptions. He knows her as well as he knows himself.

Tonight, he has no idea what to do for her.

His normally unflappable friend seems oddly diminished, shoulders slumped as she sits at her kitchen table. She’s barely touched the glass of wine in front of her. They’ve been through every conversation she had with Fringilla, trying to determine if she inadvertently gave away any important information to the other woman. So far, they’ve come up empty. It seems that Fringilla was truly there just to distract Yennefer, not to gather intelligence, which is a concern in and of itself. If Emhyr isn’t interested in collecting any more information on Geralt, then that means he probably knows everything he needs to know.

“I know you’re not going to believe me,” Geralt says. “But this isn’t your fault.”

Yennefer looks at him with hollow eyes. “She was in a room with Ciri yesterday. I let that happen.”

Geralt tries to cover up his instinctive horror at the thought of an agent of Emhyr’s being in the same room as his kid. “But nothing happened. You never left them alone.”

“I would have,” Yennefer says. “It never even occurred to me that Ciri could be in danger with Fringilla. Not once.”

“She manipulated you.”

“And I let myself be manipulated because I wanted—” Yennefer breaks off. “I just wanted something good and uncomplicated in my life.”

“Everyone does.” Geralt thinks of how much less lonely his life became after Jaskier and Ciri entered it. “You’re safe. That’s what matters right now.”

“Why aren’t you angry with me?” she demands, sounding frustrated.

Geralt shrugs. “What use would that be?”

To his horror, her chin wobbles. He’s only seen Yennefer cry twice before, once at Pavetta and Duny’s funeral and the second time the day that she and Geralt decided to end their relationship for good.

Fuck, he should have brought Jaskier along, instead of leaving him back with Vesemir, Renfri, and Ciri. Jaskier would know how to deal with the sight of Yennefer’s tears.

But Yennefer takes a shaky breath, visibly composing herself, and her eyes remain dry. “I think I may have proved Vesemir right.”

“How do you figure?”

“The more people you let in on your secret, the more likely it is someone will fuck up and say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

“But you didn’t,” Geralt says. “You didn’t give Fringilla any information she didn’t already know. She was never left alone with Ciri. She didn’t get anywhere near Jaskier.”

He almost says that there was no harm done, but looking across the table at Yennefer, he can see that that isn’t the case.

When Yennefer doesn’t respond, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“This shouldn’t have happened.” The fact that it did makes Geralt want to hunt Emhyr down.

“No, it shouldn’t have.” Yennefer stares intently at the table. “I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted. But I let myself think for a few days that I could have a normal relationship with a normal woman. I was foolish.”

“We’re all allowed to be a little foolish when we care about someone,” Geralt says. “Look how long it took me to work things out with Jaskier.”

“No offense, Geralt, but I don’t want to base any of my romantic relationships off of you and Jaskier.”

Geralt’s lips quirk. “Fair enough.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Yennefer’s face, then vanishes. “I really liked her.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

There’s nothing else to say after that, so they sit in silence and stare into their untouched glasses of wine.

***

Jaskier goes to bed early, exhausted and heartsick for Yennefer and tired of Vesemir’s silent disapproval. He doesn’t expect to actually fall asleep— his mind is full of far too many things— but he must manage to doze, because the next thing he knows, Geralt is sliding into bed next to him.

Jaskier lifts his head. “How’s Yenn?”

“Upset,” Geralt says. “Wasn’t much I could do to make it better.”

Jaskier snuggles into his boyfriend’s arms. “I’m just glad she didn’t get hurt.”

“Me too.” Geralt’s voice is tight.

Jaskier squints up at him, though he can’t see more than the outline of Geralt’s face in the dark. “Are you alright?”

“Hm.” Geralt shrugs.

“So no?” Jaskier reaches up to run a hand through Geralt's hair. “What happened to Yennefer isn’t any more your fault than it is hers. It’s Emhyr and Fringilla’s.”

“Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time to when I was sixteen and never get her involved in any of this.”

“You wouldn’t have made it to seventeen without her.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t have.”

“Well, then maybe it’s selfish, but I’m really glad you got her involved.” Jaskier leans his head against Geralt’s shoulder, letting himself relax into his boyfriend’s warmth.

Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. “I just wish I could keep you all safe.”

“You are,” Jaskier says. “And so are Vesemir, Renfri, Yenn, and Ciri. Honestly, the only one not keeping us safe right now is me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? You know it’s true.” Jaskier smiles without humor. 

“No, I don’t,” Geralt says, cupping Jaskier’s face in his. “You’re more capable in a fight than you were a year ago. And even if you weren’t, there are more important things than being able to swing a sword or cast a spell. I need you, Jask.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say to that, so he kisses him. Geralt rolls over so that he’s on top of Jaskier, gently pressing him down against the mattress. When he feels the line of Geralt’s erection against his hip, he smiles against his boyfriend’s mouth.

Geralt’s fingers toy with the waistband of Jaksier’s boxers, caressing the soft skin of his hip. “Do you want…”

“Always,” Jaskier whispers, brushing a kiss against the corner of Geralt’s lips. “We still need to make up for that date night that Renfri interrupted.”

They take their time, pressing gentle kisses against each other’s skin and letting their hands explore. Geralt has always been a thorough lover and he’s even more so tonight, taking Jaskier apart until he’s a quivering heap on the mattress. Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s chest to muffle his moans. It’s always good with Geralt, but everything tonight feels more heightened.

“I love you,” Jaskier murmurs afterwards, boneless in Geralt’s arms with his head tucked in the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“I love you too, Jask.” Geralt pulls him closer.

Later, Jaskier will wonder if on some level, Geralt knew this was goodbye.

***

Yennefer has never been one to dwell.

Bad shit happens. People disappoint you. Destiny is capricious and inescapable. Stewing over those facts does nothing to change them.

The day after finding out that Fringilla was indeed too good to be true, she should be over it. She should no longer be carrying around an iron ball of disappointment and shame in her gut. She shouldn’t be torturing herself by trying to catalog all the signs she missed, all the vague comments she ignored. But she doesn’t seem to be able to stop herself from moping. It’s pathetic and embarrassing and she hates every moment of it.

She would very much like to be alone so no one has to witness her shameful sulking, but the universe has different plans.

It’s just before closing time when Jaskier breezes into her shop, bottle of wine in hand and Renfri on his heels. “Okay,” he says. “I have your favorite wine, the number of your favorite takeout place, and a whole host of sad love song playlists.”

Yennefer looks at Renfri, who just shrugs in a “do you really think this was my idea?” sort of way.

“I’m fine, Jaskier,” she says. “I don’t need a pity party.”

“Then don’t think of it as a pity party.” Jaskier holds up the wine. “Think of it as an excuse for me to leave Vesemir with Ciri and Geralt for a few hours. You’re saving me from constant judgement.”

Yennefer takes note of the label. “You really did get my favorite wine.”

“Of course I did. You need it.”

Yennefer turns back to Renfri. “And I suppose you’re here as a bodyguard?”

Renfri nods. “And to drink wine.”

“Come on, Yenn,” Jaskier says. “Friends don’t let friends sulk alone in their apartments.”

Yennefer doesn’t bother telling him that she was quite content with her plans to sulk alone in her apartment.

Hours later, she’s sitting on her couch with Renfri and Jaskier, an empty pizza box on the floor, halfway through their second bottle of wine, and she’s not exactly feeling better, but she’s at least somewhat distracted. Jaskier is good at being distracting; he talks a mile a minute about anything and everything. Even Renfri is less irritating than usual, though that may be the three glasses of wine talking. Safe behind the wards of her apartment with one of her best friends, the threat from the Emperor seems far away.

Renfri heads to the bathroom and Jaskier turns to Yennefer, expression suddenly serious. “I know we’re not talking about it, but I really am sorry.”

Yennefer lets her head fall back against the couch. “Don’t be. I should have seen it coming.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. Who expects the woman they’ve been dating to be working for a criminal mastermind?”

“With my track record, I probably should have.” Yennefer swirls around her wine glass, watching the deep red liquid move. “Anyway, it’s not like it was serious.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t important to you.”

“She was,” Yennefer says. “Or at least, she would have been if we’d had time to get there. But it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.”

Jaskier leans against her, putting his head on her shoulder. “You’re allowed to be sad about it, you know.”

“We have bigger problems right now.”

“Don’t we always?”

Yennefer snorts and leans her cheek on top of his head. She normally wouldn’t tolerate physical affection for this long. It must be the wine. “What did you do, when you and Geralt…”

“I cried a lot and ate a ton of ice cream, neither of which seems like your style. Hence the wine and pizza.”

“I have no intention of crying over Fringilla.” If she shed a few tears the night before in the privacy of her room, well, that was no one’s business but hers.

“You know, I have a few friends that I could probably introduce—”

“No. You’re not setting me up with anyone.”

“What? There’s this one guy from work—”

“If he’s anything like you, I’d kill him before the end of the first date.”

“Now, that’s just hurtful.”

Yennefer smiles and shoves him away, just as Renfri returns. Plopping down on the ground, the Shrike grabs the bottle of wine and pours herself another glass.

“Some bodyguard you are,” Yennefer says.

“I was assured that your wards are infallible.” Renfri shrugs. “Anyway, it would take downing two whole bottles by myself to make me tipsy. Drinking myself into oblivion is an expensive endeavour.”

“My condolences.” Yennefer plucks the bottle from her hand and goes to refill her own glass, just as a shiver goes through the apartment. The lights flicker and the windows seem to rattle.

Jaskier looks up at the ceiling. “What was that?”

Slowly, Yennefer puts down the bottle of wine and rises to her feet, suddenly feeling stone cold sober. “Jaskier, call Geralt.”

“Why?” Renfri demands.

“Because someone just took down the wards.”

Renfri rises to her feet and crosses to the window, peering down at the street. “There are two people down there. Can’t see their faces. My guess is they’re mages.” She glances back at Yennefer, expression businesslike. “I can handle them on my own. Portal Jaskier out of here.”

“And if they’re not alone?” Yennefer asks.

“Then I’ll handle whoever is with them too. Just go. They may be here for you, but I doubt they’ll hesitate to kill or capture Jaskier as well.”

Yennefer nods and raises her hand to summon a portal… 

And nothing happens.

“Fuck,” she says. “Whoever they are, they’re blocking our ability to portal out.”

“Brilliant,” Jaskier says with false cheer, fumbling with his phone. “Just what I like to hear.”

Renfri glances back out the window. “They’re gone.”

Somehow, Yennefer doesn’t think that means they’ve left. She turns to the door, summoning the beginning of a spell. Renfri comes to stand next to her, knife in hand. Behind them, Jaskier is talking rapidly on the phone to Geralt, but Yennefer lets the words fade into the background.

“Do you hear anything?” she asks Renfri in a low voice.

Renfri shakes her head. “You should take Jaskier and run.”

“I’m a mage.”

“But you’re still not immune to magic. I am.”

Fuck, she’s right and Yennefer hates it. She’s surprised by how repellant she finds the thought of leaving Renfri to face whoever’s outside alone. Renfri, who is surely as capable as her in a fight, if not more, isn’t someone that Yennefer should feel the need to worry about. And yet…

Renfri shoots her a smirk.”Don’t worry, I know I’m growing on you. I don’t plan to die tonight.”

“See that you don’t,” Yennefer says, just as a portal opens up right in front of them and Cahir and a mage step through.

***

Geralt’s phone rings while he and Vesemir are watching the Novigrad police commissioner give a press conference on the news. His statement is exactly what Geralt was expecting: a lot of avoiding confirming that the NPD ever collaborated with the Witcher, lamenting the brutal killings, cautioning people to stay calm. He’s really not sure why he’s bothering to watch it. So the phone call is a welcome distraction, especially when Jaskier’s face pops up on his caller ID.

“Run out of wine?” Geralt asks by way of greeting.

“Someone just took down the wards around Yennefer’s apartment.” Jaskier’s voice is low, tense, and quick. “There are at least two people outside.”

Geralt is on his feet in an instant. “Where are you three?”

“Upstairs. The door is locked, but they have mages with them, so I don’t think that’s going to do much. They’re blocking Yenn’s ability to portal.”

“I’m on my way.” Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt can see Vesemir already getting to his feet and going to get their weapons. “Jaskier—”

On the other end, there’s a shout.

“Fuck.” Jaskier’s voice goes high with panic. “Cahir and a mage just—”

The line goes dead.

“Jaskier?” Geralt fights to stay calm, when the thought of Cahir being anywhere near Jaskier, Yennefer, and Renfri is enough to make him sick with fear. “Jask?”

There’s no answer, just like he knew there wouldn’t be. With a curse, Geralt throws aside his phone.

“What’s happening?” Ciri asks, appearing in the hallway with wide eyes.

“The Emperor’s people are attacking Yennefer’s shop.” Geralt goes to get his armor from where he keeps it hidden under the couch. He doesn’t care about going incognito right now; he’s more worried about being fully protected going into this fight. “Sounds like Cahir and at least one mage, maybe more. Yenn’s wards are down. I need to get over there. Vesemir, stay with Ciri.”

Vesemir’s lips thin. “Geralt—”

“There are too many unknowns. I’m not bringing her into battle and she can't stay here alone.” When Ciri opens her mouth to argue, Geralt holds up a hand. “I don’t have time to argue about this right now.”

Every second he delays is another second where Cahir could be putting a bullet in Jaskier’s head or running Renfri through or slashing Yennefer’s throat.

Geralt finishes donning his armor and downs a dose of potion. “I’ll be back,” he tells Ciri, voice already deepening from the effects of the potion.

He’s said that to her and Jaskier a thousand times. He means it every single time.

Tonight, he feels a frisson of uncertainty that that may not be the case.

***

One minute Jaskier is on the phone with Geralt. The next, a portal opens up in front of him, Cahir and a mage step out, and he finds himself blasted backwards out of the line of fire. Yennefer’s work, he decides as he lands on the couch. One of his flailing arms knocks over a wine glass on the end table, spilling dark red wine all over the rug, and he vaguely thinks that Yennefer is never going to let him drink wine at her apartment again.

He turns to find Yennefer locked in battle with the mage, a weedy young man, while Renfri hurls herself at Cahir. Everyone is moving so fast that Jaskier has no idea where to go or who he should help first. He goes to grab his knife out of his jacket, but the small weapon seems stunningly inadequate when compared with Cahir’s twin swords and the chaos crackling in the mage’s hands. 

The mage’s eyes fall on Jaskier and he knows what’s about to happen. He hurls himself to the ground as a spell rushes through the air above him. He can feel the dance of magic on his skin and while he’s not sure what it would have done to him, he can’t imagine that it would be good. A shield springs up around him and he looks up to see Yennefer looking back at him, violet eyes full of horror. The mage takes advantage of that moment of distraction and strikes.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier screams, helpless in the shield.

Renfri lunges between Yennefer and absorbs the brunt of the spell. But her attention is turned away from Cahir, who brings the hilt of his sword around, slamming it against her temple. Renfri crumples without a sound. Yennefer catches her with one arm, staggering slightly under the taller woman’s weight, and retreats, dragging Renfri with her while she holds Cahir and the mage off. The shield around Jaskier flickers and dies and he hurries forward to help her.

“Here.” Yennefer shoves Renfri into his arms. “Take her and run.”

Renfri’s head lolls against his shoulder, limp in his grasp. She feels surprisingly light. There’s blood seeping from a wound in her temple. She’s not completely unconscious— her eyes are fluttering open and shut— but she’s clearly dazed enough that she won’t be any help in this fight.

“Yenn—” Jaskier starts, because he can’t just _leave_ Yennefer behind.

“Don’t argue with me, Jaskier,” she snarls. “Just fucking go!”

One of the other mage’s spells comes dangerously close to her and Yennefer curses. Knowing that he’s only a distraction, Jaskier lifts Renfri into a bridal carry and starts towards the apartment door. Behind him, he can hear Yennefer still battling Cahir and the mage and he forces himself not to look back. If he sees what’s going on, he might never leave.

“If that superhuman healing of yours is going to kick in, now would be a great time,” he tells Renfri.

She mumbles something incoherent.

He manages to get the apartment door open and starts down the steps to the shop. Halfway down the staircase, he hears the creak of footsteps below. He ducks down just as a bolt of electricity hits the wall over his head. In the darkness of the shop, he can just make out a figure standing below, more electricity crackling on their palms. There’s nowhere for him to hide on the staircase. He won’t make it back up to Yennefer’s apartment in time.

The mage raises their hand to throw another deadly bolt and Jaskier does the only thing he can think of— he grabs Renfri and lifts her up to use as a shield. The electricity bounces off her harmlessly.

“Sorry,” he tells her, even though she’s still too out of it to know what’s going on. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

The mage says something, but Jaskier can’t hear what they’re saying over the rush of blood in his ears.

And then a scream rips through the shop.

Ciri’s power seems to rattle through Jaskier. He has to squeeze his eyes shut against the pressure, curling himself around Renfri. When the sound dies away, he raises his head. “Ciri?”

There’s a flash of light as she portals next to him. He just manages not to shriek in surprise. “Are you okay?” she demands. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up to hide her pale hair, her grandmother’s Lioness mask, and two swords strapped to her back.

“We’re alive.” Jaskier blinks up at her, filled with a confusing mixture of horror and pride. “Does Geralt know you’re here?”

Her answering silence speaks volumes.

“Fuck.” Jaskier scrubs at his face. “Let me guess, you’re supposed to be safe in our apartment.”

“He’s coming on foot,” she says, completely unrepentant. “Portals are faster.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Jaskier rises on shaky legs. “You realize he’s going to ground you, right?”

“You’ll put in a good word for me, since I saved your life.”

“That you did.” Squinting in the dim light, Jaskier can see the crumpled shape of the mage on the ground. He can’t tell whether or not they’re still breathing and decides that he doesn’t want to know. “Thank you.”

“Here.” Ciri puts an arm around Renfri’s waist and together they make their way down the steps and across the shop. Glass crunches underfoot as they go. Jaskier can’t fully see the scope of the damage to Yennefer’s shop, but he can see capsized shelves of merchandise and torn apart display cases. If they survive this, Yennefer is going to be furious.

As soon as they step out of the shop, Ciri shoves Jaskier and Renfri away. Jaskier stumbles back into the wall as two people— another young man and a middle-aged woman— round the corner and head straight for Ciri. Ciri lets out a short, sharp scream, but the woman throws up a barrier to block the effects. With a snarl of frustration, Ciri draws her steel sword and throws herself into battle.

She does an admirable job holding her own against two trained mages, using her sword, her magic, and her scream to hold both her opponents at bay. Jaskier can only watch helplessly; he dropped his knife upstairs when he had to carry Renfri. It’s a rainy Wednesday night, late enough that there aren’t many people out and about, but a handful of people have gathered nearby to watch the fight.

“Go!” Jaskier shouts at them, because the last thing they need is more potential collateral damage. “Get out of here!”

A handful comply, though a few stay to gawk.

Grumbling a curse, Jaskier turns and finds the woman bearing down on him, deadly intent in her eyes.

Ciri lets out a roar of rage— not exactly one of her screams, but there’s power there that makes the hairs on Jaskier’s arms stand on end— and throws out her arms. The woman goes crashing through the front windows of Yennefer’s shop. One of the onlookers cries out in alarm.

“Are you—” Ciri starts to ask Jaskier, then cries out as the second mage backhands her across the face. Her head whips around with the blow, her hood falling back.

Jaskier sees red.

He closes the space between himself and the man in an instant. The mage doesn’t see him coming; his focus is entirely on Ciri. When Jaskier drives his fist into the mage’s face, he’s gratified to feel cartilage crunch under his knuckles. The man howls and Jaskier hits him again, then again, not giving him time to summon a spell. The man fucking _hit_ Ciri, which somehow seems more personal than throwing a spell at her, and Jaskier is going to obliterate him for it.

When hands grab his shoulders, Jaskier comes up swinging, whirling around to face his new attacker. He finds himself staring into potion-black eyes and goes limp with relief. He just has the presence of mind not to throw himself into Geralt’s arms, cognizant of the onlookers. Instead, he forces a shake smile and says, “Hello, Witcher. Good timing.”

Geralt is still holding onto him, gentle but firm. “Are you okay?”

Jaskier nods, swallowing hard. “Yennefer’s upstairs with a mage and Cahir.”

Geralt nods and glances at Ciri. “Stay here with Jaskier and Renfri. Keep them safe. Find a place for the three of you to hide until I come outside with Yennefer.”

Ciri’s expression is unreadable behind the mask. “I will.”

Jaskier has a lot of things he wants to say. _“I love you. Be safe. Come back to me.”_ Instead, he reaches up to squeeze Geralt’s wrist and whispers, “Be careful.”

Geralt’s touch lingers as he pulls away. “You too,” he says softly, so much love and worry in his voice, before he turns and runs into Yennefer’s shop.

***

Geralt bursts into Yennefer’s apartment to find her facing Cahir and a young man Geralt doesn’t recognize. Cahir seems to be hanging back, watching with keen eyes as he allows the two mages to duke it out. Both Yennefer and the other mage are injured; Yennefer is bleeding from a wound on her arm and another on her stomach and the young man moves gingerly, like one of his legs is injured. As the young man lunges towards Yennefer, Geralt yanks a knife out of the holster on his waist and hurls it. It hits the mage right in the heart. With a surprised choking noise, he falls.

Yennefer turns towards Geralt. There’s blood trickling from her nose; she’s clearly overexerted herself. “He was stronger than I expected,” she says, sounding a bit dazed.

“Go,” he tells her, keeping an eye on Cahir. Rather than look concerned about Geralt’s presence, he looks downright smug.

Yennefer shakes her head. “Geralt—”

“Go,” he says again, more firmly. “Jaskier, Renfri, and Ciri are outside.”

“Ciri’s here?” Yennefer’s voice cracks with worry.

Geralt nods. “Go keep her safe, Yenn.”

He knows that Ciri is the only person in the world Yennefer would leave him behind for. Maybe it’s unfair to use that against her, but he wants her away from Cahir right now.

Yennefer backs towards the door, looking between him and Cahir. “If you’re not outside in ten minutes, I’m coming back in for you.”

“This won’t take ten minutes.” Geralt turns to face Cahir, listening as Yennefer’s footsteps retreat down the stairs.

“Good to see you again, Witcher.” Cahir still doesn’t look concerned, nor does he make a move towards Geralt.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Geralt growls.

“But it brought you here.”

“Like I said, shouldn’t have come here.” Geralt draws his steel sword and leaps at the other man.

Their swords meet with a clash of metal.

“Having fun pretending to be me?” Geralt asks through gritted teeth.

Cahir chuckles. “Sometimes I miss my gun, but I have to admit, there’s more style to fighting with swords.”

Geralt blocks a blow aimed at his abdomen. “The contacts are a nice touch.”

“They’re irritating, but I’ve been told they’re necessary for the disguise.” Cahir drives a booted foot into Geralt’s stomach.

Geralt grunts and stumbles backwards, just managing to twist to avoid the swing of Cahir’s sword. He brings up his own blade to block the next blow. He and Cahir battle for several long minutes, neither able to do any more but nick each other with their blades. Cahir is as tireless as ever and impervious to pain, but Geralt is the better swordsman. Not that being the better swordsman will help him in the end, Geralt thinks grimly as he lands a hit on Cahir’s hip that doesn’t even make the other man flinch. Geralt’s drawing back his sword for another strike when he smells smoke.

When he looks around, he finds the young mage’s body alight, seeming to crumble in on itself as it burns. The fire is spreading unnaturally fast racing across the ground to catch on Yennefer’s Metinnan rug and lapping at the couch.

“What the fuck?” Geralt asks.

“Took long enough.” Cahir sounds completely unconcerned. “I’ll have to tell Fringilla to work on the timing of her spells.”

When he looks around, Geralt sees the light of flames flickering from downstairs. He remembers the prone forms of the two mages he passed in the shop. At least one of them was dead, the other one close to it.

Cahir takes advantage of Geralt’s distraction, slamming into him and driving him backwards. Geralt snaps back to attention. The fire isn’t the only thing he has to survive right now. Smoke fills the air, heavy and acrid, as Geralt backs towards the door. Cahir follows him, his attack only growing more frenzied. If he’s the least bit worried about the flames devouring Yennefer’s apartment, he doesn’t show it.

When they reach the stairs, Geralt sees that Yennefer’s shop is engulfed in flames. There will be no getting out the front door; he’ll need to flee out the back. Casting Aard to drive Cahir back, Geralt barrels down the stairs and heads towards the storage room. He only makes it two steps before there’s a horrible cracking noise. Geralt realizes what’s about to happen and leaps casts Quen around himself just as a section of the ceiling collapses, blocking his way to the back door.

Geralt is starting to feel the edge of panic. He turns back towards the shop and finds only flames. From far away, he can hear the sounds of sirens and people shouting.

“There’s no way out, Witcher.” Cahir still sounds completely calm as he makes his way down the stairs at a leisurely pace. Geralt wonders if the man even gives a fuck about dying.

Through the flames, Geralt can barely see the street. He scans it, looking for any sign of Jaskier or Ciri or Yennefer, both hoping to catch a glimpse of them and hoping that they’ve found somewhere far away to hide.

He always knew there would be a day he wouldn’t make it home to them.

He just always hoped there would be a chance to say goodbye.

***

“I need to go help!”

“Ciri, you shouldn’t even _be_ here.” Despite her clear exhaustion, Yennefer sounds furious. “How the fuck did you get past Vesemir?”

“I told Vesemir where I was going,” Ciri says primly. “He would have come with me, except I know what you said about portaling with passengers, so he’s following on foot.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you listened to something I say.”

Hiding behind a hair salon down the block from Yennefer’s shop, Jaskier’s entire body is tense as he listens for any sign of what might be going on. In the distance, he can hear sirens. Someone must have called the cops.

Crouched on the ground, her head in her hands, Renfri suddenly says, “Smoke.”

“What?” Jaskier asks, but then he smells it: the acrid stench of burning. His eyes meet Yennefer’s and he sees the same realization on her face.

Jaskier doesn’t even realize that he’s running until he hears her call his name. His feet pound against the cobblestone sidewalk as he sprints towards Yennefer’s shop. He can see the flickering flames over the rooftops of the other businesses, knows damn well what he’s going to find, even before he rounds the corner and sees Yennefer’s shop engulfed in fire. The flames shoot out of the windows, dancing merrily against the darkened sky. Part of the roof has already collapsed. People are gathered across the street, watching. Several have their phones out.

Jaskier sees no sign of Geralt.

“Geralt!” he tries to scream, but it comes out a horrified croak. He runs forward, not sure what he’s going to do, but knowing that he has to get in there. He has to find Geralt.

Hands catch him around the waist. Jaskier snarls and throws his elbow back, colliding with his assailant’s jaw.

Vesemir curses. “For fuck’s sake, you can’t go in there!”

“Geralt’s in there!” Jaskier twists around to face Geralt’s father.

Vesemir’s masked face looks eerie in the flickering light of the flames. “I know. Back door is blocked. Can’t get in the front either because of the flames. I tried.”

“But—” Jaskier looks around helplessly as Yennefer and Ciri approach. When Yennefer sees her shop, she lets out a hoarse cry that’s unlike anything he’s ever heard from her. Ciri vanishes in a shimmer of light, then reappears a moment later, doubled over.

“I still can’t portal inside.” She looks up at the shop, eyes glinting with tears. “Maybe he’s not in there. Maybe he got out.”

Yennefer doesn’t say anything. She has both hands pressed to her mouth, like she might be sick.

Jaskier looks into the shop. Through the flames, he can just make out a figure standing in the middle of the shop, unmoving. He can’t see any features, but he knows that it’s Geralt. He can feel the weight of Geralt’s gaze on him. He can only stare back helplessly, transfixed by the sight of the man he loves silhouetted by flames.

“I love you,” he whispers and he has to believe that Geralt hears it. That Geralt knows.

With a thunderous crash, the roof collapses and flames shoot into the night air.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you yell at me, remember that "angst with a happy ending" tag (feel free to yell at me, I know I deserve it.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They bury Geralt nine days after the fire._
> 
> _Well, they bury a coffin filled with mementos— a framed picture of Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri, a watch gifted to Geralt by Vesemir as a child, one of his favorite sweaters. There is no body to bury; the fire didn’t even leave bones behind. Jaskier feels like he’s watching himself from above as he stands at the graveside with Yennefer, Ciri, and Vesemir, half-listening as a priestess of Melitele prays over the casket._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warning that this is a pretty heavy chapter that deals with a lot of grief and trauma. Remember that "angst with a happy ending" tag!

It’s a mercy that Jaskier doesn’t remember much of what happens next.

He knows that he falls out of Vesemir’s suddenly slackened grip, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn’t even feel the pain.

He knows that behind him, Ciri begins to sob and Yennefer lets out a horrible, anguished noise.

He knows that there are cops and fire trucks and people asking too many damn questions.

He knows that Detective Mousesack is there, wrapping his coat around Jaskier’s trembling shoulders, murmuring, “Come on, son, let’s get you home.”

He knows that there are police in his apartment, asking him questions that he answers on autopilot, because he and Geralt talked about what he should do if Geralt ever fell in battle. It’s vital that even if it’s revealed that Geralt and the Witcher were one in the same that no one knows that Jaskier, Ciri, and Yennefer were ever aware of the fact. He tells the police the story that Yennefer whispers into his mind, that he, Geralt, Ciri, Vesemir, and Yennefer were having dinner at Yennefer’s apartment when a man dressed as the Witcher attacked them and the actual Witcher showed up to save them. He tells them he doesn’t know where Geralt is.

He knows that Roach whines and paces the apartment incessantly, looking for Geralt. Ciri hasn’t left her room since they arrived home.

He knows that Renfri reappears in the morning, after the police have cleared out, the ugly bruise on her forehead already healing. She doesn’t hug him, but she grips his shoulders as she whispers, “I’m so sorry, Jask.”

He knows that Mousesack returns later with a bundle wrapped up in his coat. He lays it all out on the kitchen table— two swords, one silver and one steel, and a wolf’s head medallion.

“They think the fire must have been magical in origin, because it burned through everything,” Mousesack says. “Except for these.”

“They’re enchanted.” Yennefer’s voice sounds very far away, even though she’s standing right next to Jaskier. “I spelled them so that a bomb could drop on them and they wouldn’t get a scratch.”

Jaskier picks up the medallion. It’s cold to the touch. “Shouldn’t these be in evidence?”

“Probably, yes.” Mousesack doesn’t even pretend to be remorseful. “I thought you needed them more.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers, slipping the medallion around his neck so it will rest right over his heart.

He knows that the world has ended but somehow, he’s still here.

***

They bury Geralt nine days after the fire.

Well, they bury a coffin filled with mementos— a framed picture of Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri, a watch gifted to Geralt by Vesemir as a child, one of his favorite sweaters. There is no body to bury; the fire didn’t even leave bones behind. Jaskier feels like he’s watching himself from above as he stands at the graveside with Yennefer, Ciri, and Vesemir, half-listening as a priestess of Melitele prays over the casket.

The assembled crowd is larger than he was expecting. Essi and Shani are standing nearby with Priscilla and her husband, as are Mousesack and Marie. Triss, Sabrina, and Tissaia are there, Triss crying openly. Some of his and Geralt’s old coworkers from _The Press_ are in attendance, including Eskel, Lambert, Coën, and the Countess. A handful of Ciri’s friends from school have come with their parents. And then there are quite a few onlookers that Jaskier doesn’t think knew Geralt at all, but are just here for the spectacle. The fire that apparently killed the Witcher has gained a lot of publicity and people are curious about the other victims.

It’s only a matter of time before it comes out that Geralt was the Witcher, Jaskier knows. He’s just glad it didn’t happen before the funeral, so they can mourn in some manner of peace.

Ciri huddles between Jaskier and Yennefer, eyes red-rimmed and lip quivering occasionally, though she seems to have run out of tears. Jaskier tries not to think of all the funerals she’s attended in her seventeen years: her parents’, her grandparents’, and now Geralt’s. He loops an arm around her shoulders, holding her close, like he can shield her from the horror of having lost yet another parent.

Geralt’s medallion hangs heavy around his neck. It’s flipped around and he can feel the engraving of the wolf’s head pressed against his skin.

The priestess is talking about Melitele’s mercy. Jaskier pictures Yennefer’s shop in flames, Geralt’s defeated silhouette standing alone in his last moments. He wonders where Melitele’s mercy was then.

“And now, a reading.” The priestess turns to Jaskier, expression painfully kind.

Ah yes, the reading. Jaskier and Yennefer decided that he should read a poem three days ago, when they were putting the finishing touches on the service. Jaskier doesn’t remember why he thought it was a good idea. He draws the folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and reads. The familiar words of one of his favorite poems, a 14th century sonnet about love and loss, mean nothing to him now; he feels completely hollow.

Yennefer gives the eulogy afterwards, her voice wavering only slightly when she recounts stories of their adventures together as teenagers. She wanted Jaskier to give the eulogy instead of her, but it had to be Yennefer. She was Geralt’s oldest and dearest friend, the person he knew him best. Besides Cahir, she was the last person to see him alive before he—

_Don’t think about it._

Jaskier’s breath comes out in a stutter and Ciri gives him a concerned look. He squeezes her tighter against him.

He places a white rose on top of Geralt’s casket before they put it in the ground, resting his palm against the cold, smooth wood for a moment. Geralt isn’t in there, he knows. There weren’t even ashes of Geralt to put in an urn. Geralt will never have a final resting place. Jaskier pulls his hand away quickly and turns his back to the casket.

There’s a luncheon afterwards at an overpriced Nazairi restaurant in the Harborside District. Geralt would have hated this, Jaskier thinks as he stands in his awful polyester suit, murmuring his thanks to the mourners who come up to him to give their condolences, accepting the handshakes and pats on the arm. For a moment, he indulges in a fantasy that Geralt is standing next to him in a similarly ill-fitting rented suit, rolling his eyes as a woman from _The Press_ who Jaskier knows maybe had two conversations with Geralt in her life starts weeping about what a lovely man he was.

But if Geralt were alive, Jaskier wouldn’t be here. He thanks the woman stiffly, hands her a tissue, and turns to the next person, another one of their coworkers from _The Press_. The man has pale green eyes, not quite the same shade as Cahir’s, but a jolt of raw fear still travels through Jaskier.

He wants to be comforted by the fact that Cahir died in the fire too, but he can’t take any solace when Geralt was burning to death at the same time.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he keeps telling himself. The only way he’s going to keep going is if he doesn’t think about it.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the green-eyed man who isn’t Cahir— who really, looks nothing like Cahir— says.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, his gratitude as empty as the hollowness inside of him.

***

The cold air slaps Yennefer in the face as she steps out onto the little patio behind the restaurant. It’s closed this time of year, with all the tables and chairs put away, but she leans against the wall and closes her eyes. She feels a moment of guilt for leaving Jaskier and Ciri to their own devices, but she can’t be in there anymore, surrounded by people with their saccharine sympathy and their barely-hidden curiosity. She can’t listen to one more, _“So sorry for your loss”_ when none of these people can even begin to comprehend what she’s lost.

Geralt, gone. Her home, gone. Her livelihood, gone. Fringilla…

“Yenna.”

Yennefer’s eyes snap open.

Fringilla stands at the edge of the patio in that same dove gray peacoat she wore the first time she walked into the shop less than three weeks before. It feels both like yesterday and like it happened in another lifetime. Yennefer feels the sudden, overwhelming urge to fall into the other woman’s arms and she hates herself for that.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” The anger causing her voice to shake is directed as much at herself as it is at Fringilla.

“I came to offer my condolences,” Fringilla says. “And to tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”

“For what happened,” Yennefer echoes.

“I never meant—”

“The spell that burned down my shop.” _The spell that killed Geralt,_ Yennefer can’t bring herself to say. “Was it one of yours?”

Fringilla’s lips press into a thin line. “Yes.”

Yennefer wants to scream. She wants to hurl a spell at her, to obliterate her where she stands, but there are too many other people on the other side of the door. Ciri or Jaskier could come looking for her at any moment. Yennefer can’t start a fight here.

“I didn’t know what was going to happen,” Fringilla continues.

“What did you think would happen? Did you think we would gather around and roast marshmallows over the magical fire you started?”

Fringilla’s eyes fill with tears, which makes Yennefer even angrier. “It’s a self-destruction spell. Most of us mages who work for Emhyr have it on us. If we’re killed in battle, we burst into flames.”

“Magdalena, the girl Renfri killed, didn’t.”

Fringilla shakes her head. “Magdalena was only twenty. I wouldn’t cast that spell on her.”

“So glad that you have some moral compass.”

“You need to know that I had nothing to do with what happened at your shop. I never—”

“I don’t care,” Yennefer says.

“Yenna—”

“ _I don’t care_.” Yennefer takes a step towards her, voice rising to a shout that echoes off the buildings surrounding them. “He was my best friend!”

“I know.” In contrast, Fringilla’s voice drops to a whisper.

“No, you don’t,” Yennefer says. “How could you? Do you even have friends, or have they all self-destructed because of a spell you placed on them?”

Fringilla flinches.

“Geralt was a good man, a good friend, a good father.” Yennefer can feel a lump rising in her throat, but she refuses to fall apart in front of the other woman. “He deserved better than that. How dare you come here and give me your condolences when you’re the reason he’s not at home with his family right now?”

Fringilla says nothing.

“I just need you to tell me one thing,” Yennefer says. “Did he suffer?”

Fringilla’s eyes are unbearably big and sad. “The fire would burn through a human body in a matter of seconds.”

Yennefer tries not to picture the agony of those few seconds, of Geralt alone and knowing that he was dying. It was quick, she tells herself, and it’s over now. Nothing can hurt Geralt anymore. The thought nearly makes her crumble.

“Emhyr promised me that you wouldn’t be hurt,” Fringilla says. “He swore to me—”

“And I’m sure a man like that always keeps his promises.” Yennefer steels herself against the waves of grief. “He’s shown such consideration for human life in the past, after all.”

Fringilla looks down at the ground.

“How do you do it?” Yennefer demands. “The Fringilla Vigo I knew had principles. How do you work for someone like that?”

“There was a time when I thought he was the lesser evil,” Fringilla says.

“And what do you think now?”

“I don’t know.”

With a humorless laugh, Yennefer shakes her head turns back towards the restaurant. There’s nothing else to say. Fringilla can’t offer her anything that will ease the terrible ache inside of Yennefer. She can’t fix this.

“You should know,” Fringilla says. “Everything I said to you, everything I felt, it was all real.”

Yennefer pauses with her hand on the door handle.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was working for. But I didn’t lie to you about wanting to get to know you better. I didn’t lie about caring about you. That was all true.”

Yennefer turns back to face her. “What does it matter?”

Fringilla looks like she’s been struck.

“My best friend is dead,” Yennefer tells her. “I’m homeless. The business I spent years building is gone. Your feelings for me, whatever they may be, are the least of my concerns.”

Fringilla’s mouth works. “I never wanted you to get hurt, Yenna.”

“Well, I did. And now it’s time for you to leave.” Yennefer looks her dead in the eye. “And if I see you anywhere near Jaskier or Ciri, make no mistake, I will kill you.”

If Fringilla replies, Yennefer doesn’t hear it, because she turns and heads back into the restaurant without another glance.

***

It’s the tenth morning that Jaskier has woken up to an empty bed.

He thinks back to when he and Geralt were broken up, those blissful moments of half-wakefulness when he would forget that Geralt wasn’t in bed next to him, when he would expect to turn over to find a broad back and a head of white hair. He would give anything for those few moments of obliviousness these days. He dreams of Geralt’s last moments every night and wakes up fully aware that the space next to him in bed is empty and cold. Geralt’s smell is even gone from the pillows.

Jaskier is alone.

His apartment is full, with Renfri, Yennefer, and Vesemir all staying there— Yennefer in Ciri’s bed while Ciri takes the floor, Renfri on the couch, and Vesemir on an air mattress in the living room. Even when he leaves his room to find them all up and about, he still feels removed from the rest of them, like he’s watching them from far away. He hasn’t shaken the detached feeling from the day before, and maybe that’s for the best. If he can pretend he’s a spectator watching a sad movie, maybe he’ll make it another day without falling apart.

He’s standing in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal without tasting it while Ciri sits at the table and stares into her own bowl, when Renfri comes in. Jaskier can tell immediately by her posture that she’s about to say something she doesn’t think he’ll like.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he asks.

Renfri nods. “I need to.”

“No, you don’t,” Ciri says to Jaskier’s surprise. The last thing he knew, Ciri could barely stand Renfri. Her dislike must have softened over the last few days without Jaskier noticing.

Renfri’s lips twist into a sad smile. “I’ve stayed too long. It’s not safe for me to linger in one place for more than a couple of weeks. And someone needs to be out there, making sure that nothing like this happens again.”

Going after the Emperor, Jaskier knows she means. He’s torn between the equal parts desire to beg her to stay away from the man— he doesn’t think he can handle any more losses right now— and asking her to bring him Emhyr’s head. For a moment, Jaskier imagines going with her. Hunting down the people who took Geralt from him rather than hunkering down in safety. But Ciri, Yennefer, and Roach need him. He’ll have to have his revenge secondhand.

“When will you leave?” he asks.

“Today,” she says. “Probably in a few hours.”

So while he’s at work. That may be for the best, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he has another goodbye in him right now.

“Keep in touch.” He makes his best attempt at a smile. He doesn’t know if he succeeds.

“Of course.” Renfri looks between Ciri and Jaskier. “We’re going to make those fuckers pay for what they did.”

Jaskier wants nothing more than to believe her.

***

Jaskier isn’t expected back at work until Monday, but he can’t spend another day trapped in his tiny apartment with four— or three now— other people, none of whom are Geralt. At the office, Jaskier tries to fall into his familiar routine. He works on a couple of quizzes and an article. He drinks a lot of coffee. He tries to avoid his coworkers’ sympathetic glances and their murmurs of, “How are you holding up?” He tries not to think of the fact that when he goes home, Geralt won’t be waiting for him, looking up at him with that small, sweet smile.

Somehow, he makes it to the end of the day. On the train ride home, he’s alert, hyper-aware of his surroundings. There haven’t been any more threats from the Emperor since that night at Yennefer’s shop. After all, there’s no one to use Jaskier against anymore. But he’s still on guard, just in case Emhyr decides to try and force a reunion with his daughter or maybe decides that Yennefer, Renfri, or Vesemir are too dangerous to be allowed to let live.

He’s just getting off the train when his cell phone rings in his pocket. It’s not a number he recognizes, so he silences the call. He’s still getting near-constant calls from reporters wanting to talk to him about the Witcher, but he has no desire to talk to any of them. When the same person calls a moment later, Jaskier grits his teeth and answers the call, ready to rip someone several new assholes.

“Hello?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Jaskier, it’s Eskel.”

When he worked at _The Press_ , Jaskier always liked Eskel well enough, even if they didn’t know each other well. But still, Eskel is a reporter for the crime section, so Jaskier is cautious as he asks, “What can I do for you, Eskel?”

“There’s something you need to know.” Eskel’s voice is low and urgent. “ _The Press_ is about to run a story alleging that Geralt is… was the Witcher.”

Jaskier’s insides go ice cold. He doesn’t waste time denying it. “When?”

“It will probably go live in the next hour or two,” Eskel says. “They noticed a pattern between all the places Geralt lived and places where the Witcher was active. And there are plenty of eyewitness accounts of people spotting the Witcher in your neighborhood. Plus, the fire.”

It’s only when someone bumps into Jaskier that he realizes that he’s stopped dead in the middle of the train station. He forces himself to move, putting one foot in front of the other. “I have no comment.”

“I know, I’m not calling for a comment. I’m calling because I always liked Geralt and I know you two have a kid. You should get her out of the city now. Tonight, if you can manage it. The Witcher may be gone, but there are still people who might want revenge against him.”

Jaskier thinks of all the enemies that the Witcher made over the years knowing exactly who he was in real life and knowing where they live. If those enemies can’t strike back at Geralt directly, they may settle for Jaskier and Ciri. He thinks he might be sick. “Thanks for the head’s up.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more. Just take care of yourself, Jaskier.”

“Thanks, Eskel.” Jaskier hangs up the phone and continues his journey home, his steps quickening as he sends a text to Ciri.

_Start packing._

***

The decision to go to Vesemir’s farm in Kaedwen is undoubtedly the right one. There are four bedrooms, so he can easily fit Jaskier, Ciri, and Yennefer. It’s off the grid. The name on the deed isn’t Vesemir’s real name; few people would be able to easily connect it to Geralt. Jaskier can work remotely and Ciri can finish her senior year online.

That doesn’t make it an easy decision.

Jaskier stands in his bedroom, the room where he spent so many nights curled up next to Geralt and where he woke up so many mornings with his face pressed against the back of his boyfriend’s neck, and wonders where he should even start. He can’t possibly bring everything with him; they’ll have to come back once the hubbub has died down to bring the rest of his things. But how can he leave everything behind, when every single item in this room reminds him of Geralt and the life they had together?

He takes a deep breath and begins to pack. He fills his suitcase with a mix of his things and Geralt’s, letting his hands run over the soft, worn gray t-shirt that Geralt liked to wear around the apartment and remembering what it felt like when the fabric was warmed by his boyfriend’s skin. Maybe he should stick to one or two mementos, but it feels wrong leaving so many pieces of Geralt behind.

He opens the top drawer of Geralt’s dresser, thinking of the goofy socks with cartoon wolves that Ciri got Geralt for Yule. Geralt loved those socks; he’d never been the goofy socks type, but he wore them all the time. As he rifles through Geralt’s socks— all carefully rolled and arranged by color— his fingers brush something velvety. It’s a ring box, he realizes after a moment of incomprehension, tucked inside an old pair of faded gray socks. Hands shaking, Jaskier picks it up and opens it.

The ring is beautiful, a thin silver band with a single sapphire inlaid in the center. The metal is cool to the touch. When Jaskier examines it closer, he sees that there are music notes inscribed on the inside. He hums them and realizes what they are— the silly power ballad that he always used to call “their song” because he was singing it the night they met and it always used to drive Geralt crazy.

Jaskier slips the ring on his own finger. It fits perfectly.

He hasn’t wept since the night that Geralt died. The magnitude of what he lost has felt too big for tears. But the sight of that ring on his finger and the knowledge that Geralt will never see him wearing it cracks something inside of Jaskier.

Jaskier sinks to the ground, his shoulders heaving with wracking, desperate sobs as ten days’ worth of grief, rage, and horror overwhelms him. He tries to muffle his weeping with his arm, not wanting anyone to hear.

Geralt is gone. There will be no more lazy mornings hitting the snooze button over and over for a few more minutes of cuddling. No more kisses brushed against shoulders and cheeks as they pass each other in the hallway or the kitchen. No more bickering over what they should watch on movie night or stealing food out of the pan as Geralt cooks or quiet walks with Roach. When he and Geralt got back together, Jaskier never thought he would be alone again, and now here he is.

The door opens and Yennefer comes in. She doesn’t say a word as she crosses the room to kneel down on the ground next to Jaskier. His tears don’t abate as he leans against her; now that he’s started crying, he doesn’t think he could stop if he wanted to. A moment later, a head lays on his shoulder and he realizes that Ciri has joined them. Her cheek is damp with tears.

The three of them sit there for a long time, holding each other and crying. When Jaskier has finally run out of tears, he wipes his face and lifts his head. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Fuck,” Yennefer agrees, running a finger over the ring on Jaskier’s finger. “He was going to ask you on that date night that Renfri interrupted.”

“And on Yule,” Ciri says with a choked little laugh. “And on your birthday. And when you went to the mountains this summer. He kept waiting for the right time.”

“Of course he did.” Jaskier manages a watery smile. It’s the first time he’s smiled in ten days.

Ciri sniffles and scrubs at her eyes. “I kept walking in on him practicing his proposal to Roach. He was so nervous. He wanted to make it perfect.”

Jaskier looks down at the ring and tries to imagine it being Geralt’s broad, strong hands that slipped it onto his finger. “I would have said yes,” he whispers.

Yennefer covers his hand with hers. “He knew that, Jaskier.”

***

Vesemir doesn’t say a word about Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri’s red-rimmed eyes or the fact that it took Jaskier and Ciri well over an hour to pack. All he says is, “We leave now, we should be there by dawn.”

Jaskier isn’t ready to go. He doesn’t know how he could ever be ready to leave the home he shared with Geralt. But he knows there’s no staying here, so he just nods and grabs Roach’s leash and his suitcase. He forces himself not to turn around for one last look as he pulls the apartment door behind him. He has a feeling that if he does, he won’t be able to make himself leave.

To his surprise, Mousesack is waiting for them by Vesemir’s truck. Yennefer must have called him; it certainly wasn’t Vesemir. The detective manages a haggard smile while he sees Jaskier.

“Nice night to flee the city,” Jaskier says in a mimicry of his usual lighthearted tone. It rings hollow. “Are you coming with us?”

“Afraid not.” Mousesack says. “Someone needs to stay behind to take care of things on this end.”

Jaskier hates the idea of Mousesack having to cover up for them. “Will you be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, Jaskier.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Mousesack sighs. “I have a feeling my retirement will be coming sooner than planned, but it’s okay.”

Jaskier’s heart plummets. The detective was supposed to retire next year; he deserves to do it on his own terms. “Mousesack—”

“This has been coming since that first video of Cahir dressed as the Witcher appeared,” Mousesack says gently. “Once it comes out that Geralt and the Witcher were the same person, it’s going to look like I either helped him cover it up or I was the worst detective in the world, not realizing that a friend of mine was a vigilante.”

“What about us?” Ciri’s voice sounds small and terribly tired. “If they realize that we knew who Geralt was—”

“I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Mousesack says.

Vesemir puts a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “And if it does, Kaedwen doesn’t extradite to Novigrad. The NPD can issue as many warrants as it wants for Jaskier and Yennefer. Won’t make a difference.”

Jaskier hates the idea of being stuck in Kaedwen for the rest of his life, unable to ever venture back to Novigrad. Unable to visit Essi or Shani, go to his favorite coffee shop, or walk through Pontar River Park on a sunny day. He has nothing against Kaedwen, but it isn’t his home.

“We should go,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier nods and pulls Mousesack into a hug. “Take care of yourself.”

“And you too.” Mousesack ruffles his hair. “You’ll be okay, Jaskier. It will take awhile, but you’ll get there. I promise.”

Jaskier can feel his eyes filling with tears, but he blinks them back. It’s tempting to fall apart again and succumb to the all-consuming grief that’s replaced that horrible hollow feeling. But there’s no time right now. “Thank you for everything. You’ve been a good friend. To me and to Geralt.”

“He was a good man.” Mousesack’s voice wavers.

“The best.” Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to hold back the tears.

They say their goodbyes to Mousesack and pile in the car, Yennefer in the passenger seat while Jaskier, Ciri, and Roach squeeze into the back. They haven’t even made it down the street when Jaskier’s phone begins vibrating nonstop in his pocket. He doesn’t even have to look at the screen to know why so many people are trying to get in touch with him.

 _The Press_ ’s story has broken. By morning, everyone in Novigrad will know that Geralt Rivia and the Witcher were one in the same.

***

The first thing Geralt is aware of is a slow, steady beep. It’s annoying, pulling him from the depths of sleep one beep at a time. He opens his mouth to tell Jaskier to hit the snooze button, but no sound comes out. His throat is parched. Next, he becomes aware of his arms and chest being itchy. He tries to scratch, but he can’t move his arms. He can’t move anything at all.

What the fuck?

“Ah, good, you’re awake. We were starting to get worried.”

Geralt opens his eyes and is met by a blinding light. With a gasp, he squeezes them shut.

Above him, there’s a chuckle. “Take it slow, old friend. You’ve been sedated for ten days. You’ll need a moment to adjust.”

Carefully, Geralt opens his eyes in a squint and registers the face of the man standing over him. It’s Emhyr, wearing a benevolent smile that makes Geralt want to punch his face off. Since that seems like a bad idea, Geralt takes stock of his other surroundings. He’s in what looks like a standard hospital room— he identifies the source of the irritating beep as a heart monitor— lying in a narrow bed. Or it would seem like a standard hospital room if it weren’t for the fact that Geralt’s wrists and ankles are shackled to the bed.

“What the fuck is this?” Geralt tries to ask, but the words come out a wheeze.

“Oh, apologies, you must be parched.” Emhyr vanishes from his line of sight for a moment and returns with a cup of water. Geralt’s thirst wins out over his desire not to accept drinks from his enemies and he lets Emhyr tip the lukewarm water down his throat, followed by two more cups.

“Where am I?” Geralt tries to think, to remember, but his memory is a blur of flame and smoke and screaming.

_Jaskier’s broken whisper of, “I love you.”_

“Not far from Novigrad,” Emhyr says. “Unfortunately. I still have business to attend to up here, I’m afraid, or I would be happily back in Nilfgaard.”

“Where are they?” Yennefer, Jaskier, Ciri, Renfri, Vesemir. Are they here? Has Emhyr captured them too?

“Yennefer, Ciri, and Jaskier left Novigrad with Vesemir last night, shortly after an article was published in _The Continental Press_ about the notorious vigilante known as the Witcher being one and the same as recently deceased reporter Geralt Rivia. I’m not sure exactly where they went, but Vesemir’s farm in Kaedwen is probably a safe bet, don’t you think?”

No threat is uttered, but Geralt can see it in Emhyr’s ideas clearly. _Cooperate or I’ll find them._

“As for the Shrike, she’s disappeared like a rat off a sinking ship, but what else can be expected of someone like her?” Emhyr’s lip curls. “You know, I’m glad you work with her, Geralt.”

“Why’s that?” Geralt growls.

“Because when I heard the rumors that the Witcher and the Butcher were one in the same, I thought they couldn’t possibly be true,” Emhyr says. “The Witcher was too soft. Too merciful. That wasn’t the Geralt I knew. Even when Calanthe told Cahir who you were, I wasn’t convinced at first. But then when I see you working with someone like the Shrike, a vicious killer, I know you’re exactly the Geralt Rivia I knew fifteen years ago. You’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

Geralt meets his eyes. “You want to see the Butcher, Duny? Take these fucking cuffs off.”

It’s an empty threat and they both know it. Geralt could be uncuffed and fully armored right now and he’d still be weak as a kitten. Emhyr smiles, eyes coldly amused. “You never did know when to quit, Geralt. I always admired that about you.”

“Why am I here?” Why is Geralt not dead? Memories of the fire are coming back to him in pieces. Fuck, Yennefer’s shop. Did anything survive?

“Because as I contemplated what to do with you, I decided that killing you would be such a waste. There are so many uses you could have.”

A chill races up Geralt’s spine. “I won’t work for you. If that’s what you’re angling for, you may as well kill me.”

“Oh, I know,” Emhyr says. “You never did well with authority figures. Do you know, you and Vesemir were my inspiration for the experiment that created Cahir? I had help, of course. A host of scientists and mages. But at the end of it all, out of over a dozen young men, we only had one survivor.”

“Should have been zero.”

Emhyr ignores him. “In retrospect, we were missing something very important, Geralt. You. Studying you is going to tell us everything we want to know about how to make more people like you and Cahir.”

Geralt is very glad that Emhyr isn’t like Cahir and Renfri; he can’t hear the pounding of Geralt’s heart. “It won’t work.”

“Probably not at first,” Emhyr says. “It may take years. But we have plenty of time. And you will cooperate, or I’ll find a new test subject. And who better than a healthy twenty-seven year old man like Jaskier?”

“You don’t need to threaten him.” Geralt’s voice barely wavers. “It doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice in the matter.”

Emhyr smiles coldly. “No, you don’t.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Updates will be on Tuesdays.


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